What's love got to do with it?
by Garrae
Summary: A day spent in his company gives her a bad headache and an almost overwhelming desire to hit him. Or shoot him. But under it all she can feel the current tugging at her. Because he's sexy in the bad-boy way that's always turned her on. Season 1. In the beginning, Marlowe created Castle and Beckett. I own nothing.
1. Chapter 1

**Before I begin, thanks are due to Farscot, for technical advice; Jester's Pet Oriole, who asked for a different story but whose suggestion helped to inform this one; and DX2012 for all our discussions.**

**Very special thanks to Drdit92, for reading, encouraging, and ever-present help. I can't say how much I appreciate everything you've done.**

* * *

Chapter 1: He's a sinner

She recognises the crime scene instantly. No question but that someone has copied a tableau from one of her favourite author's books. It looks accurate in every detail. It's spookily, obsessively weird. Of course Ryan and Esposito don't get it. Beckett's not sure they read anything beyond the sports pages of the New York Post. But there are crazed fans of every writer out there: she's seen wannabe Pattersons, a dozen Brett Easton Ellises. Normally those sorts of killers end up with an FBI profiling department. But this one's landed with her, and it's a good excuse to reread the books. Strange, though, usually fan-killers choose the well-known books. This one must be a serious geek. If she hadn't had the best possible alibi, she'd almost have suspected herself. Except she'd been where she always is, unless (and sometimes even if) she's asleep: staring at her murder board or at her desk, buried in the bullpen of the Twelfth. It's where she's happiest.

Procedure says she needs to interview the obvious suspect. Intrigue at the nature of the crime tells her to do it now. A rapid Google shows her that she will find her subject at a smart hotel, where he's launching the latest episode of his insanely successful franchise. It's the most popular crime writer event in town, because rumour has it that he's killed off the character and isn't writing any more. Vicious rumour has it that he's blocked. Beckett wonders if writers with writers' block might seek inspiration in a rather more direct fashion than simply using their imaginations. One never expects it, but she can't discount the possibility.

And under it all, as she goes alone to her cruiser and starts the engine, is the delicate stroke of something else, something a little darker. She's always liked the edge in his books, the hints of the darker side of many things. Strong men, brains and muscle, alpha males. She's never met him, because standing in lines at a single signing for three seconds of contact doesn't count. And now he's a possible witness, a possible suspect. She feels a midnight thrill of expectation.

* * *

Rick Castle is bored and petulant. He's quarrelled with his agent, he's fed up with his mother hitting on any silver surfer who isn't obviously wearing a ring, (_if they don't display it they're fair game, Richard darling_) and even his daughter is not providing him with the usual happiness and amazement that she's his. Nothing interesting has happened all evening. He could have his pick of gorgeous women, who'll – he is sure – do anything for him that he happens to want: there are flocks of them milling around him. There's alcohol, and if he were still that stupid there are undoubtedly various illegal substances available. He wouldn't even have to try hard. He can have anything he wants, any way he wants it, and he's still bored.

And under it all he's frightened. He'd got bored with Storm, killed him off before the critics could do it for him. He knows the last book isn't quite as good, could see the slow descent into formula writing coming – he's seen it in many long-running series by others – and took decisive action.

He's good at that: decisive actions, when he wants to be. He doesn't normally need to: when he's been a star for twenty years; rich, handsome, everybody's friend, pack alpha in oh-so-many ways; people just get used to giving him what he wants, and never even think to quibble.

He'd learned fast, little Ricky Rodgers. The publishing business doesn't take prisoners. He'd learned to read a contract and spot the flaws, negotiate like a corporate lawyer till he could afford his own top-of-the-line attorneys, lay down the law about what he would and wouldn't do. No long book tours – a fortnight at most, and only out of school terms, once he had Alexis. The tightest terms in the industry on his agent and PR rep – they'd screamed blue murder, but he wouldn't give in. This is his talent they're exploiting, and he's not giving up an iota of it without a hard bargain.

He'd learned in a hard school. Always on the move, always broke, makes you tough. Out for what you can get and keep. Scrounging and scavenging and charming with it, because it's so much easier to get what you want if people like you. Theatre people are ruthlessly competitive and egotistical, always trying to be top. He saw it all, through the eyes of the child he was, and learned. Be liked, be loved – and always, always, be in control.

He's got the playboy millionaire CV to go with the persona. Two marriages, both failed: one for infidelity, (not his. He keeps his promises. He may not make many, but he keeps the ones he does. It's a matter of pride, or honour.) one for incompatibility. Sleeping with your agent simply doesn't work. She'd thought it would give her more leverage, more control, and found that Richard Castle likes his own control, thank you very much, and wasn't prepared to surrender any of it to her, in bed or out. So now it's soft, pretty women, if he wants them, which is a _lot_ less often than page six makes out; and total control of his own life. No-one tells him what to do, and only his own conscience keeps him from doing anything he wants, any time he likes. He's got long past enough money to buy anything he feels like: he's got the immense loft in SoHo, a bigger house in the Hamptons, the Ferrari, the trappings of wealth and fame. And to go with it, the edge of bad boy, a little danger, a little rough, a little hint of darker things. Just a little hint. Too much reality might frighten the fans.

Despite it all, the success and the money and the women and the status, he's bored. And scared. He exchanges a few words with his daughter, a joke about the pretty, pink plastic women with pink plastic minds, wanting their cleavage signed, and making it clear that they would be very, very happy to let him do far more than that. Anything he wants, in fact. Anything. He thinks bleakly, snagging another glass of cheap champagne and wishing it was whiskey to drown his fear, that some of them would be a little more uncomfortable than they'd like, if they saw the real Richard Castle, not the charming playboy.

"Mr Castle?" It's a clearer, sharper tone than he's used to, but still, it's going to be another plastic woman looking for a souvenir: a signature, or a one-night stand. The first she can have. The second, not so – Oh. Ohhhhh. Wow. _This _one can certainly join him for the night. She's stunning. Tall, dark, green eyes. Ohhh yes. And there's something else, an edge he'd like to explore, a quick flicker of arousal in her eyes.

She's - interesting. And he hasn't been interested in anything for months.

He's still brandishing the Sharpie, embarking on _where would you like it_? (anywhere she wants. He can make her feel so good, any way she wants it. And later, any way he wants it, when she's soft and pliant and purring and open. He gets the feeling she might be adventurous. That's fine, so's he.)

That's when she pulls out a shield, and he sees the gun on her hip, and he realises that this is not a game right about the point she looks him over with contempt (contempt? He's _Rick Castle_. No-one looks at him like that. No-one.) and orders him to come with her for questioning about a murder. No-one's given him orders for a long time now, either. He gives orders. Not that he often needs to, though in certain intimate situations he likes to. But here he doesn't have a choice. Go willingly, or go in handcuffs. He doesn't like that, either. He doesn't do handcuffs. Others have done handcuffs for him, when he wanted them to. On the other hand, this NYPD cop is _seriously _hot, and he's famously handsome and charming. He'll have her eating out of his hand in no time, and then they can move on to… other things. It'll be his turn to give her orders, and hers to answer questions. Such as _Do you like this?_ And _Want more?_ And similar. Turnabout is, after all, fair play. Especially in bed.

He starts to understand that it – she - won't be that easy when every attempt to flirt is shot down dead. She's angry and for some reason he doesn't understand she's not only taken an instant dislike to him, she's making it perfectly obvious. People – women - just don't _do _that to him. He hasn't been knocked back in nearly twenty years: it's he who knocks back. Well. Well, well, well. This Detective Beckett just gets more and more interesting by the moment. And with every spiky, angry comment she also gets hotter and hotter. Not just that, she's evidently got a mind under that edgy, irate shell. She's fast. She might even be as intelligent as he is. Mmmm. He's definitely interested. And aroused. Game _on_.

Except it's not. Game off, it seems. She's done with him, escorts him to the elevator and disposes of him with much the same expression as she'd throw a used Kleenex in the trash. Now he's offended. First contempt, then orders, then coldly aggressive questioning, and now she's finished with him she's shoved him out the door and made it clear that if she never sees him again it'll be ten minutes too late. Now he's not just interested, he's annoyed. And possibly just a little bit obsessed. She's not simply going to get rid of him. He's in charge of his life. What he wants, he gets. And now he wants this Detective Beckett.

By the time he's flagged a cab, which takes much longer than he'd like – another irritation, a reminder that he's not been in control at any point this evening: if he hadn't been hauled in for questioning there'd have been the usual luxurious limo to take them all home – he's worked himself into a state of intense ire. He pours himself the Irish whiskey he's been waiting for all night, and throws himself into a comfortable chair in the study. Two sips in it hits him. Inspiration. Somewhere in the irritation and annoyance and outright desire, he's found his new character. Writers' block has been demolished, and he's suddenly fizzing with ideas. She's right there in his head, demanding to be written, screaming to come out. He's sketching out connections, ideas, sentences, plans: layering on to the picture of Detective Beckett all the nuances he thought he could spot. _This _character will be hot. Intelligent. Stunning. Passionate. And all his. He'll mould her to be any way he wants her. He recognises for an instant that this is wish-fulfilment, born of frustration and desire, and not a little spoilt-child tantrum; but then he shoves that concept away from him and begins. With every word he writes, he turns the screw of his newest obsession a little tighter.

By dawn, he has his outline. By ten, he's sent it to Black Pawn. By eleven, Gina's told him it might work, which is about as close as she ever gets to outright approval at this stage.

And then he has his next brilliant idea. If someone's killing using his books as their inspiration – and abruptly he remembers that the irritatingly hot Detective Beckett had clearly recognised one of his early, less-than-excellent (still a best seller, though) efforts. Hmm. Fangirl? And she _still_ felt able to treat him like that? His irritation and need to prove her wrong edge up another notch – then _obviously_ he should offer his assistance. Who else, after all, would be able to provide the level of detail that New York's Finest would like? And it will help him with the background for this story, and – emphatically _not_ incidentally – he'll get to be around Detective Beckett. He'll make her see that she should want him. He pulls out his phone, looks up a particular contact.

"Bob? Hey. It's Rick."

He'll have her. One way or another. He always gets what he wants. And no-one treats him as if he's nothing. Not any more.

* * *

Beckett is particularly irritated with life when she disposes of the great Richard Castle: playboy millionaire, tabloid darling, best-selling novelist - and arrogant idiot who clearly thinks he's just got to smile and be smarmy for women to fall at his feet. Disappointing, really. She'd thought, for a few seconds, that he might be… interesting. That there might be some edge. But then he'd started to put the moves on and honestly? Waste of time. He'd been too sloppy, too casual, too _I-can-have-anyone-with-no-effort-at-all_. Attitude like that, he'd be selfish in bed, too. So she'd indulged her inner bitch-cop and grilled him hard. He hadn't liked it. She'd seen it sparking in those baby-blue eyes. Not a man used to being turned down. Not a man used to being told what to do by others. Definitely not a man used to being on the bottom. Even if he had said _I'd be happy to let you spank me_. Somehow she doubts that. She suspects it might be the other way round, and just for an instant wishes she'd wiped the smile off his smirking face by saying so. Shame. It could have been good. He'd have been just her type, if he hadn't had such an uncharming personality. She regrets the lack of redeeming features for a moment.

She likes big men, bulky frames, some muscle. Someone she'd have to work to take down in a fight. She likes bad boys, too. There was a time she was a very bad girl, and she met a number of very bad boys. She's dabbled in the dark side, paddled in the shallow end of some interesting pools. She'd been – adventurous – for a while. Till her life changed. She's worked through that, a year and more of therapy had eased the majority of the pain, though not taken away the desire to solve the case. She's been single for a long time, now, and hasn't missed it: herself, and her dreams, are enough. Still, it's a shame. He'd have been just her type. Even some intelligence, even if he was doing his best to hide it. Oh well. Never mind.

She'll never have to see him again.

* * *

When she discovers that her Captain has got a consultant in on this case she's a tad ticked off. She and her team are the best in the precinct, and they don't need some shrink profiler to help. Still, she respects Montgomery more than any other cop, and if he thinks it's necessary, well, likely he has good reason. She thinks that right up till the moment the _consultant_ swaggers in, smirking scruffily and with infuriating self-satisfaction. Montgomery won't even let her protest. Her fury is stoked when _Mr Castle_ – she'll drown him in formality, if she can't get rid of him – whispers in her ear, too low for anyone else to hear.

"No-one treats me like you did and gets away with it, _Detective_ Beckett." She shrugs, insolently, coolly.

"That supposed to worry me? You'll need to try a lot harder than that. Criminals worry me. You," she looks him up and down slowly, "clearly can't even handle a razor. I don't think I've anything to worry about." Although on the slow once-over, she's noticed a _lot_ about his physique. Especially south of the belt.

"You'll see." His tone drops into one he's clearly used successfully on a lot of women. "You'll want to be – friends." _Friends._ Yeah, sure. Is that what the cool kids call it this week? Though the voice would cause angels to sin. She looks him up and down again, not failing to put on an expression of boredom.

"I don't think you have a big enough claim to be _my _friend, Mr Castle. I prefer a little more substance." She turns her shoulder and summons the team. The case requires her attention. The civilian does not.

* * *

Castle is severely unimpressed with Detective Beckett's lack of pleasant reaction to him, and rapidly returns to his previous state of annoyance. He's got plenty substance, and many women have been very impressed by his claims. He's well read, well travelled, and full of interesting conversation. He's quickly reaching the point where he's firmly intent on proving to Detective (ha!) Beckett that he's what she wants. There had been a suspicious, if almost infinitesimal, pause on the once-over, just below belt level. He won't be dismissed like a naughty, or tedious, child. He'll show her that he's at least as good a detective as she is – how hard can that be? She may be stunning but come on, she's only a cop. She can't possibly compete with his education, experience or wealth. He'll show her. And when she's suitably impressed, she'll be ready for the next stage. She'll be desperate for the next stage. He's quite sure he'll have what he wants, one way or another. It won't take much effort. It never does. He doesn't even need to start now. He can afford to wait. Let her stew, and wonder. And when he's satisfied, he'll walk away. And it will serve her right to find out what she's missing and be left. Nobody turns him down like that. No-one.

* * *

It quickly becomes apparent that he's an even bigger nuisance than she'd first thought. She can't leave him unwatched for a moment. It's like babysitting a giant, spoilt small child, with much the same attention span and definitely the same demands for her attention. He makes nice with the ME; who, when Beckett hisses at her, gives her a _what-are-you-on-this-guy's-hot_ look and is only grudgingly detached from her flirtation with the oversize toddler to give Beckett the run-down. Fortunately the boys are as unimpressed as Beckett. A day spent in his company gives her a bad headache and an almost overwhelming desire to hit him. Or shoot him.

But under it all she can feel the current tugging at her. Because he may be an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, but he's sexy in the bad-boy way that's always turned her on. She can tell an alpha male a mile off. Like calls to like, and she knows what she likes. Someone strong enough to take charge, to let her give up control and let someone else lead. There aren't many of them around, and she hasn't met one in years. And now she has, and she tells herself she'd rather scrape dirt off her shoe than have to be in his company for one more instant.

* * *

_I would be delighted to know what you think._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Sweet dreams are made of these

She dreams, always, in sensations and sounds, never in clear vision. Vivid dreams, making up for her confined life: work the mainstay of her existence, occasional nights out with the team, occasional girls' nights with the ME who is her only female friend. Truthfully, her only friend. She doesn't confide in her team, nor they in her. Lanie thinks she should date, but frankly she can't be bothered. She won't be picking up the sort of men she might actually want to meet in cop bars or nightclubs, and she's sick of being hit on by drunken office drones who're turned on by the shield and the gun, but who think she's some sort of stripper who isn't a real cop. And if you want to keep respect, you don't date another cop. She'd dated a Fed once, and it had been good, for a while, till she chose her career over his, and it ended in vicious words and hard feelings.

And so she dreams of touch and taste and words and noises, and pretends she's satisfied with that and her own imagination and abilities. At twenty-nine, she never admits to herself that she misses hard reality, size and heat and muscle; physical contact and weight pressing her down, filling her up. She tells herself that the dreams, and her imagination, are enough.

She's asleep almost as soon as her head plumps on to the pillow, splayed out across the full width of the king-size bed. She's a restless sleeper, the comforter always tangled in the morning; the sheet rumpled and half on the floor. Tonight, her dreams are waiting for her: dark and edgy and hot.

She's stretched out, naked, feeling intent eyes on her, admiring the taut lines of her body as she flexes. There's damp at the juncture of her thighs, the slight sheen of sweat at her collarbone, her nipples hard and her breasts aching. She's open, wet and waiting for his touch. She's never disappointed, in these dreams. Her unseen lover traces down, teasing, winding her tight till she's twisting frantically under his hands and pleading for more, harder, _now_. But this dream isn't done yet. This dream-lover doesn't let her have what she wants, teases her more with hands and then with mouth, feasting on her until she's reduced to formless noises and whimpering; he's holding her apart and wholly in control of her body and reactions, finally sliding into her. She's right on the edge of disintegration when the sounds and sensations dissolve into visions and as she falls into shuddering orgasm the man between her legs is Castle.

She wakes shaking, sweat-soaked and angry. As if it weren't enough that the man himself was a major disappointment, he has to spoil her dreams too. And it had been one of the best, right up till the last moment. She thumps her pillow back into shape, straightens up the bed and curls back down, disciplining her mind to sleep, hoping, for once, that there will be no more dreams.

In the morning she's unrefreshed and unsatisfied, indulges in the hottest shower she can stand and satisfies her need for sensual pleasure in washing her hair, massaging her scalp; stroking on her body wash and then her favourite moisturiser. It helps, for a while.

* * *

By the end of the case she hates him. Her dreams aren't her own any more: each one showing her Castle's face, just as she falls full force into pleasure. In her dreams, he makes every one of her darker fantasies come alive: things she'd learned about back when she was in Vice, letting someone else have control in ways she'd never trusted anyone to try. Nothing too outré, though. Pain is not her kink, and she has no desire to be in that sort of a game. Giving up control, now… that's a different matter.

But not with him. He's no less annoying, irritating, still making his practiced moves and still evidently thinking that she'll fall into his grasp without his making any effort at all. She doesn't think anybody's ever said _No_ to him before. The more coldly she treats him, the more she cuts him off at the knees, the more obvious she makes it that she doesn't want him there, the more she sees, with a kind of dark, hot hateful delight flaring deep in her mind, that he's beginning to try harder.

Castle is filled with a toxic mix of inspiration, irritation, and near-constant arousal. He hadn't taken long to realise that whatever Detective Beckett was, _only a cop_ didn't cut it. He's scrambling to keep up with her steel-trap mind; she's in top physical condition – she has to be, he doesn't know how she trains but he hadn't thought it possible to run, let alone run that fast, in high-heeled shoes – and she walks in those same heels like it's the prelude to sex: foreplay oozing from four inch _fuck-me_ heels.

And she makes it clear that she thinks he's lower than sludge in the sewers.

No-one's ever treated him like this: like he's an unwanted waste of space. He's a celebrity: Most Eligible Bachelor, the gossip columns' darling. Everyone loves him; everyone gives him what he wants. The only person who can check him is his daughter, because he has to be the best father he can be, for her. He loves her unconditionally, with all of his heart and soul, and she stops him from acting on every impulse, because he'd never, ever, do anything that would damage her.

Redeeming love for his daughter aside, he can't bear the fact that this Detective isn't succumbing to his charms. In a dark corner of his mind, he plans how to make her give him what he wants, willingly. And in between, he writes his newest character the way he wants the Detective to be: feisty, hot, intelligent – but then there's the parts that will never make the published book, at least for a mass market. The parts where she's wet, wanton, willing: receptive to anything his male lead wants her to do. Badass, kick-ass, hard-ass and in control out of bed, but open and needy and definitely not in control in it. As a consequence, he spends the time around the real Detective in a state of considerable discomfort, not in the slightest eased by the mixture of what he's seeing and what he's writing. He wants to take her into one of the interrogation rooms and _interrogate_ her infinitely desirable body: push her up against a wall and kiss her, press into her, till she opens to him. In truth, he simply wants to take her. But force is not his kink. At least, not without full agreement. He's not that man. He won't ever be that man.

Without realising it, he's beginning to try harder. He's thinking, not content to look slow in front of her. He wants to out-think her, and he's finding that it takes considerable effort, which does not always pay off. She's a _lot_ more intelligent than he'd thought was possible. So he can't resist showing off what he already knows about her, when they're sorting through his fan mail, which has completely failed to impress upon her what a desirable partner he is: how popular, how many women would kill to be alone in a small room with him. None of that makes the slightest dent in her icy dislike. And when he pins her with a look and tells her all his conclusions about her history, trying to prove how clever he is, make her at least respect his intelligence, his ability to deduce her story, she looks at him with renewed contempt and simply says _Don't think you know me_. Under it, though, he's caught something. He'll examine it later, but he thinks it might have been pain. It piques his interest, and feeds his obsession.

He's started to go to the gym more. He's always gone regularly: to stay in shape, keep up appearances for his own satisfaction – he's much fitter than he looks - but now he's intent on proving that he can keep up with her, that he's carrying enough muscle to hold his own in a fight. To hold her. From stray comments her team have made – not that there are many: they don't regard him with the same unconcealed abhorrence as Detective _I-hate-you-Mr-Castle_ Beckett, but they certainly don't pay him any respect – he's learned that she spars, regularly, and she's tough. Still, he's got to have five, maybe six inches in height on her, deceptive as those heels are, and muscled up he must be close to twice her weight. She's very slim.

He's practising at the range, in case he needs to shoot. He won't tell her that he doesn't carry: no permit to hold a concealed weapon tucked in his well-stuffed wallet, but if he needs it, the ability is there. The ridiculous fantasy that he might need to save her life is dismissed after a brief examination, but the idea that doing so would make her want him sticks around.

By the end of the case, he's more determined to have her than ever. When the killer's taken down for processing, and he can see the end of his opportunity to show her what she should want approaching, he asks her out for dinner, lightly, pretending the answer doesn't really matter. She turns him down flat, more of that infuriating cold contempt lacing her words.

"So I could be one of your conquests?" There's a very clear implication of _I don't think so_. He pulls his game on.

"Or I could be one of yours." But he wouldn't be. He'll conquer her. That's how his games go. _Vidi, vici, veni._ Or more colloquially: _I saw, I conquered, I came._ Though he's always made sure that his partner of the time did too: his pride demands that he's the best lover possible, leaving them exhausted, yet still desperate for more. It's just another way of being in full control, and it keeps his reputation intact. But she's _still_ refusing him.

"Too bad," he says. "It would have been great." It would have been. She's _fascinating_. When she turns back towards him and smiles slowly and seductively, sin and knowingness flaring darkly, hotly in her eyes, he thinks he's got her. She leans in close enough to kiss, and whispers in his ear.

"You have _no_ idea." Then suddenly she's three strides away again and he's left painfully, shockingly aroused simply by the sex-soaked tone of her voice, the scent of her hair and body; watching her leave with a sway of her hips that promises hot, moist delights in dark, subtle ways. Her walk is wicked: tells him that this is no vanilla innocent. But she's gone, and the case is over, and he has been entirely unable to convince her to be with him. _No-one_ does this to him. No-one leaves him hot, hard and unsatisfied.

And so his obsession takes another ratchet upward, and he begins to write as soon as he gets home.

Around half of what he's written is suitable for his publishers; the other half will stay firmly in the private areas of his laptop. _His_ Detective, still un-named, has been provoking his male lead (ah. He has a name, suddenly. Rook. He ignores that extremely unsubtle link, the Freudian slip, looks up and spots the bottle that started this. Jameson. Jameson Rook, journalist. Yes.) all evening, leading him on, dancing on the edges of danger – and making it very clear that she wants him.

And so she gets what she wants, and more. Rook's a big man, a powerful man, and the Detective he's creating for Rook, the one that only exists in his head, is no physical match for him when it gets up close and personal. He lets Rook loose, pulling the Detective in hard, ravaging her mouth, hands gripping her, making sure she can't step back; but this Detective wants it as much as Rook does, and gives back with interest. Rook's undone her formal button-down – he can see it in front of him, just like the one spiky, angry Detective Beckett was wearing – spreading it open and palming her breasts in their silk-and-lace cocoon, using the fabric and the force to heat her up and make her moan, biting at her neck and then kissing his way downward till he sucks and licks and nips over her breasts and starts to make her whimper for more, strips her hard and fast and hot till she's naked and wet and open for Rook, writhing and desperate, and only then does Rook take her to the bedroom, push her down and use his strength to hold her still while she fights to bring him closer, scratches and claws and screams. But Rook's in control, and this Detective is begging him to be inside her, over her, long before Rook's ready to allow her that. He hears how she'll plead, order, beg and moan, sees and feels Rook taking her with hands and mouth and finally, when all she can do is make formless noises and she's stretched open and wet and ready, thrusting into her beneath him till both of them come hard.

And with every word he writes he sees Detective Beckett in his bed, at his sexual mercy, desperate to have him, all that icy control and contempt shattered under his hands and mouth and body. By the time he's released his own tension, her face at the forefront of his mind with every stroke, he's decided that he's not letting her escape him. He's going to possess her, and she's going to want him to. He no longer cares that he's obsessed. All that writing it out has done is fed the beast, and now he's going to find a way to convince her to be his. Nobody refuses him. Nobody. He stops writing, and starts to think.

Charming moves, that would work on any, every, other woman, have failed. Asking her on a date – a _date!_ Half of New York would kill for him to ask them to join him for a drink, never mind on a _date_, and _she_ turned him down flat – has failed. Showing off how much he's guessed about her already, how clever he is – has failed. But. There was that submerged hint of pain, and he abruptly remembers that the first thing he thought of when he saw her, after the immediate surge of sexual attraction, was that she was interesting. Because he'd been bored for months, and now he may be completely frustrated, angry, and obsessed, but the one thing he can't say he is – is bored. And it's not just Detective Beckett's body, it's her mind. Specifically, it's her mind at work. Suddenly he knows what he's going to do, but not at three a.m.

He opens the publishable document again, writes all night, again, only stops to make his daughter breakfast and see her off to school. And once it's normal, civilised office hours, he flips open his phone and dials Bob, again.

"Bob, hey. It's Rick. I need your help." Bob makes warm noises of encouragement that, politician-like, commit him to nothing. Still, Castle knows what Bob likes. His books, and good PR for the city. "I've found my new character, Bob, but I need to do some research. It's going to be an NYPD Homicide Detective. Good PR for them, and for the city, but I need more detail than I can get in the library and on the net. Can you and the Commissioner get me into the Twelfth Precinct? You know that they took that case where someone was killing based on my books? It was really impressive how they worked. I'd like to follow that lead Detective around for a while." He's perfectly smooth, his usual self, relaxed and jovial and chummy: all boys together with the Mayor. He'd known, back when, that being friends with the Mayor and the Commissioner would one day pay off, and playing poker with them once a month (and never winning as much as he could have done) certainly has.

"Okay." Bob sounds as if he thinks Castle may have an ulterior motive. "She's pretty impressive, that Detective Beckett, isn't she? A real hot-shot." He's teasing him, but that's fine. As long as Bob thinks it's just another mild flirtation. Which is all it will be. Flirt, bed her, walk away, free of this scratching obsessive irritation; write the books and be a success again, in his own estimation and everyone else's.

He thinks for a second. A bit of local support wouldn't hurt either.

"Bob, what's the name of the Precinct Captain again?"

"Montgomery. Roy Montgomery."

"Yeah. D'you think he might like to join the poker game? He seemed like a good guy." He'd liked the look of Roy Montgomery. He'd been interesting, too. A supporting character starts to insinuate itself into the plan. In fact, several. Detective Beckett's team – three of them? That's an unusual number. Irish Ryan and that Latino – he scrabbles for the name, ah yes, Esposito – were clearly partners, but he didn't see that Detective Beckett was actually paired with anyone. She was very much in charge: there was that slight reserve around her. So there's a space. A Rick Castle-sized space. And if he fills that space in the precinct, for research, then he's got a chance to fill that other space. She'll see, and more importantly, feel, him fill that space. He'll get what he wants. He always does.

"Sure," says Bob. "He's a good player." And Castle is sure that Bob thinks it's all his own idea when he goes on to say, "Why don't we include him in tonight's game?" and sounds pleased and even a little surprised when Castle agrees. Now Castle can't wait to cut the call and get back to his characters.

Irish Ryan, clearly the junior partner: a bit softer, dressed like he still answers to his mom each morning. Still, there must be a bit more to him than that. Castle wonders what his back story is. Esposito, the Latino. He's tough, and, Castle suspects, more than a little protective of his lead Detective. There's a history there, between Detectives Beckett and Esposito, but he doesn't think it has anything to do with sex. The interactions are all wrong for that. Good. He doesn't want to have to fight off anyone else. He stops for a moment. Why's he so sure that Detective _I-don't-care-about-you_ Beckett is single? He reviews their meetings. There was that flare of instantly suppressed arousal in her eyes when she hauled him in for questioning. Her extreme care never to touch him. To avoid any possibility that he might accidentally – or not – touch her. The edgy, angry irritation, under the cool, calm exterior – ah, yes, that. Born out of not acknowledging the tension between them. That tension's not something that arises if you're getting it elsewhere. That's something that only burns if you're not getting it at all. Another route into Detective Beckett. He carefully doesn't think that she's not the only one who's edgy, irritated, and celibate.

* * *

_Thank you for the response to this story. Those of you who've been riding one of my stories before will know that as long as you post in a way which is __answerable, I will answer every review. To all guest/unlogged in reviewers, thank you._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: You can't always get what you want

Castle hosts the poker game with the same combination of boyish charm, boys-night-in, food and liquor as always. The more he sees of Roy Montgomery, the better he likes the look of him. He thinks, if he plays his hand right, that Montgomery will be his biggest asset. If he gets it wrong, Montgomery will turn into the biggest hard-ass that Castle's ever met, and unlike most of the people he, Castle, meets, Montgomery needs and wants absolutely nothing from him. So it's just as well that he seems to like Castle. A few hands, and drinks, down, it's time to put his plan into action.

"Roy, I was really impressed by the way your team handled that case based round my books." His sincerity is palpable – especially since he doesn't have to fake it this time. He really had been impressed. "In fact, it gave me an idea for a new book, but I really need to see how you operate to be able to do it justice. I've always done my research by being on the spot, and" – he puts on his best open and honest expression, with a hint of _you're the only one who can make this happen_ – "if you could see your way to letting me follow Detective Beckett and her team around that would be really helpful."

The Commissioner bounds in supportively, without even having been primed. "Roy, I think this is an excellent plan. The publicity would be good for all of us, and the NYPD. I'm sure Rick won't write anything that would denigrate the good name of the police." Castle shakes his head firmly. He has no intention of doing that. Bob adds his agreement.

Montgomery looks very hard at Castle when the other two aren't paying attention. Castle doesn't turn a hair. He's sure that Montgomery is a top-class cop, but he's been acting all his adult life, being whoever he needs to be to get what he wants. It's never failed him yet, and when Montgomery nods slightly he knows it hasn't failed now.

"Okay," Montgomery drawls. "We'll give it a go. Rick, you'll need to sign a whole bunch of waivers and releases. First off, though, you'd better drop by the precinct around the end of shift tomorrow – that'll be about six – and once you get there I'll advise Detective Beckett of the arrangement. Once that's done, we'll get the lawyer in."

"Sounds good. I'll be there."

"Mmm. One more thing, though." Montgomery fixes Castle with a gimlet glare. "That's my best team. If their solve rate falls, and it's on you, then you'll be gone. Good PR or not. I can't afford for the hit rate to drop."

"I won't mess them up. I only want to shadow them, not get involved." Well, it's mostly true. He doesn't want to be involved with the homicides, necessarily. That's not his primary goal. He wants to be _involved_ with Detective Beckett. And now he's got his route in. _Game on, Detective. Let's see how long you can hold out when I'm with you every day. You'll be wanting me before you know it._

Fuelled by the success of the first phase of his plan, and not a small amount of whiskey, Castle returns to his novel once the poker game disbands, setting up his subsidiary characters and scrawling in their back stories. No names, as yet. Names will come to him, at the right time. When he's finished that, as far as inspiration will take him, he sits back and congratulates himself on his cleverness. Which leads him back to the vision of Detective Beckett, walking away from him with a sashay that screamed sex with every step; which naturally leads him to the private chapters on his laptop, pretending that he's writing about the characters.

He starts with what she'll wear. Dress pants and button-downs, sure, but under that silk, and lace, the same deep emerald green as her eyes. It'll be sensual, both to sight and touch, sliding over cream skin with a susurrating whisper, soft as sin and twice as enticing. And only Rook will know she wears it, because she'll only wear it for him. He'll buy it for her, and insist, and then each time he looks at her she'll know he's imagining her clad in only that, undressing her with his eyes in the way he will later undress her with his hands, when they're in one or other apartment, leaving her spread out across the bed in heels and lingerie, portrait of a wanton. She'll do it for him, display herself and watch him watching her, heat sparking across the space between them. By the time Rook moves, she'll not be able to resist him, left hot and damp by only the look in his eyes.

He leaves it there, suddenly tired; prepares for bed, his story still at the forefront of his mind, and as he slides between his sheets all he sees in his mind, again, is the vision of Detective Beckett stretched out and waiting for him, here: not her sarcastic, cold, contemptuous self, but converted in his imagination into his toy Detective, his character, open, pliant and willing. His last thought before he falls into dreams is that tomorrow Detective Beckett is going to find that she made a big mistake turning him down. The concept that he's acting like a spoilt child, only wanting what he can't have, demanding attention, doesn't even make it to his hindbrain. His dreams are hot and edgy, and in every one of them Detective Beckett features, naked, hot and responsive. When he wakes, he's uncomfortable and all too aroused, and it takes him much longer than he'd like, than he expects, to calm himself.

* * *

Beckett spends the day on the post-case paperwork, immeasurably relieved to be shot of that irritating writer and his distilled-sex voice. Maybe now her dreams will return to faceless sensation, she'll be rid of this creeping desire, the dark knowledge that if she let him, he could give her what she's seeking. If only he'd been worth the effort. If only he'd wanted her, rather than just another piece of meat, not worth trying for, just another warm body so he could scratch a momentary itch. If only, then she might well have succumbed. But she won't be a notch on anyone's bedpost; she's got more self-respect than that.

When Montgomery summons her in at the end of the day, she assumes it's some administrative matter to be dealt with. It takes her a few minutes to comprehend what she's hearing, and when she does she's incandescently angry. To be shadowed by _any_ civilian would be bad enough. To find that she's been sucker-punched by the arrogant, spoilt, _I'm-God's-gift-to-women_ Richard Castle, who's forced his way into the precinct under the guise of _research_ – yeah, sure. She knows what he wants to _research_. For one night only – and is going to be following her around: everywhere she goes, every case that drops, every witness, every move, every theory, every single minute he wants to be there, she has to let him. _Fuck._ It's all she can think. She doesn't want to be anyone's _inspiration_.

From the bad-boy smirk on his face, as he leans against the doorframe, making sure he's displayed to best advantage, she's sure every iota of her horror at the prospect is plain on her face. And that _bastard_ is enjoying every piece of her discomfiture. Not only that, but he's looking her up and down as if he can see straight through to her underwear. It's infuriating all over again, made worse because the gaze is reverberating down her nerves and building heat deep within her body. She manages not to curse out loud, to pull on her calm professionalism, while Montgomery explains that as soon as Mr Castle has signed the waivers tomorrow he will begin. She leaves the instant she can, automatic formal farewell of _Goodnight, sir_ to Montgomery, ignoring that Nemesis is still in Montgomery's office, ignoring further that he follows her to the elevator.

"You shouldn't have turned me down, Detective. Now I'll be around you all the time, till I've taken what I want." He looks at her face, almost bland and unrevealing, but he can see the horrified fury in the depths of her eyes. He knows what she's thinking. He smiles happily at her, deliberately charmingly – he already knows how that riles her. "I need to know all about how you work: how you solve cases, how you deal with the paperwork, how warrants and arrests and interrogations are done, how you interact with the rest of the team." The smile shifts from happy into predatory. "Of course, I'll be part of that team now. We'll see how we interact, too."

She steps as far away as possible. He's too smug and too big and too close and too attractive. She doesn't even like him: he's arrogant and selfish and he's forced his way into the precinct and _her_ team under some subterfuge of _research_ and _observation_ and why can't he take a hint and leave her alone? He doesn't move, just leans on the wall of the elevator and examines her without even pretending that he isn't stripping off her outer layers and imagining her in her underwear. She hates that look, that velvet voice; and hates more that it's having just the effect he wants: sliding down her skin and into her nerves, slithering seduction slipping deep into her. She's always liked the bad boys, the edge of danger, and it's certainly standing right there in front of her. But she tells herself she won't succumb to a spoilt playboy with an itch. No matter how well he pushes her buttons and pulls all her triggers.

Castle's wholly delighted with how the day has gone. All Detective Beckett's cool, calm icy control isn't entirely hiding that he's got under her skin, though it's a pretty impressive façade. He wonders if it's linked to that flash of pain he'd caught the other day; there'd been something there that just for an instant had stopped him cold. Maybe this Detective has a more interesting story than the one he'd told her – but he'd got enough of that right to rock her back on her _come-and-take-me _heels; he'd seen that. He's pulled out all her secrets and now he'll own her body and her mind, and she'll let him; want him to. She has to want it, too. He tells himself he knows all he needs to know about her for his new character, and very specifically does not think that he's never felt this driving need to possess his inspirations before. Bed them, sure, but not with this same edge of obsession. Then again, his muses have been only too happy to co-operate, before. He's sure he wouldn't feel like this if she'd just behave like all the others, play along in the usual mutually enjoyable fashion. What's her problem? He's _Rick Castle_, playboy millionaire and modern Casanova, good times guaranteed. No-one turns him down. No-one.

* * *

He's content, at home, to play games with his daughter, lose – he never lets her win, now, unlike when she was younger, because she's bright enough to succeed herself – at cards, have a pleasant family dinner. Even his mother's mildly malicious sniping, pointing out the less good parts of his reviews, can't upset his equilibrium, especially as she's had to get to the Smalltown Times to find a bad one. He's got the first stage of what he wanted, and the extremely frustrating Detective Beckett is squarely in his sights. He goes back to his story; writing continuously, consistently, fleshing out the bones. It's good, he can feel it: new, _interesting_, falling out of his fingertips on to the page, precision words and syntax, taking his putative readers exactly where he wants them to go, showing them the character he wants them to see. The Detective will pull in his public in their droves. To do it right, though, to write the book he wants, the book he needs to produce, he needs the details of a working precinct and a working Detective and her team. He has to be there, right by her side, (he doesn't even notice that he only thinks _her_, not _their_) seeing it through her eyes, every last detail. He's interested, intrigued, fascinated by the way they worked to solve the crime, and nothing's penetrated his ennui for months, so it's not surprising that he's so desperate to be at the Twelfth, uncover the story. Her story.

On that thought he veers from publishable to private, again, indulging his fantasies and making _his_ Detective into the willing participant that glacial Detective Beckett ought to be. She's angry with Rook; the reason doesn't matter, but he probably made some smart comment at the wrong moment; and so she's ignoring him, giving him the cold shoulder, telling him not to come around tonight. Rook's not having that, though: he knows that he can change her mind, melt the ice; this dream-Detective likes to be …persuaded... and Rook knows it, and how she likes it, all too well. So he won't be denied: gets into her car; ignores all protests and orders to quit; comes to her apartment and pushes in. And once he's through her door he catches her by the shoulders and spins her round and traps her between his muscle and the wall and takes her mouth possessively; kicks her feet apart and grinds into her.

He knows – Rook knows: Castle doesn't know anything yet, but he hopes – that the story Detective likes it when he's rough, when he takes charge, and sure enough she opens up to him and winds one long leg around his waist, moaning into his mouth as he shows her just what she does to him, just what he'll do for her. He opens her shirt, takes a second to appreciate the fine silk over skin, dips his head and nips at the soft curves; makes her gasp and push towards him, wanting more. He'll – Rook. _Rook _will – give her more, his hands busy at the fastening of her pants, loosening them to drop them down, momentarily stepping back to allow them to fall and leave her standing in an opened shirt, not quite slipping off her shoulders, and _come-and-get-it_ underwear.

"You shouldn't shut me out." Castle still has no name for this woman, but he knows how Rook will think. It's how he thinks. "You know you'll let me in. You like me pushing in." He looks hungrily at her, hard against her. The dream-Detective doesn't answer, simply moves a little, circling against him, taking friction and her own pleasure. "Uh-uh. You don't get to do that till you let me in again. Talk to me." He – _Rook, dammit_ – holds her torso still against the wall, leans in and kisses her slowly, deeply, not touching anywhere else. She digs firm fingers into his back, trying to pull him tight in, but he's not having that, won't be her toy. That's not how they roll. When he's kissed her for a while, moving off her lips to round her neck, angling her just the way he wants to find the small nerves that make her wriggle and gasp some more, he brings his hands down across her breasts and strokes, moulding and palming and swiping over the erect nipples: leaves that before she's had enough and comes back up to press into her. "What do you want," – he really needs a name, but now he doesn't even try to pretend this isn't wish-fulfillment fantasy – "Beckett? This?" And he brings a hand down to cup her and slide his thumb over her till she's writhing and he feels the silk turn damp under his wicked fingers.

"Yes. Touch me, dammit."

"Stop shutting me out when you're mad. Shout, or yell, or anything; but not silence." He strokes again, pulling the delicate fabric over her with each movement, enough to excite but not to satisfy. "Talk to me. Why'd you get mad?"

"You're an arrogant asshole."

"But you love me for it." She shakes her head, not willing to give Rook any concession, but her body betrays what she really feels. He slips fingers under the silk, teasing his Detective, winding her tighter, nipping her shoulder to remind her that he's still a little mad himself at being ignored. She pulls him closer and takes his mouth, biting his lip, invading as his fingers invade her body and match the duel of their tongues. He slides them in and out, stoking her to heat and movement, and finally he relents and slides across her with his thumb in the same rhythm as his thrusting fingers and she starts to clench around him and press down so he goes deeper and then she gasps Rook's name and comes.

Castle stops writing. He's so aroused by his imaginings that he's incapable of typing any further. The thought of controlled Detective Beckett against his door, being melted from the frozen façade that she's been presenting non-stop since day one, has left him with only one remedy, and he takes it. It doesn't stop him dreaming: more of the intense, erotic images that leave him unfulfilled and unsatisfied. His morning shower has to be as cold as he can bear; but the knowledge that he'll be following Detective Beckett around from now on until _he_ chooses rebuilds his self-control.

He'll win her. He'll have her. He's Rick Castle, and all _his _dreams come true. He always, always gets what he wants.

* * *

_thank you to guest and unlogged-in reviewers._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Dream a little dream of me

The precinct lawyer has a stack of waivers a mile high, and it's clear that Detective Beckett is hoping that they'll put him off. _Not likely, Detective. No way_. It boils down to one point: no matter what happens to him he can't sue the precinct, or the city, or anyone associated with the NYPD in any way. Even his estate, on behalf of his cold dead corpse, won't be able to sue anyone for anything. He doesn't care. It's something new, and interesting, and he's definitely not bored any more at all. Well, he won't be when he's finished with this pile of papers and the lawyer, which are not interesting in the slightest.

Even Detective Beckett muttering, not at all sotto voce, from the corner _can't I just shoot him now_ doesn't upset him in any way. He's got here, to the precinct, to her. He can't wait for a case. It dawns on him that as much as he wants Detective Beckett in his bed, he wants to see her mind working, how she does her job. When she'd been investigating she'd been so focused, so intent: there hadn't been anything else except finding the right answer. Ah-ha. That's what matters to her. A little piece of her personality falls into place. No wonder she'd been so annoyed with him, in questioning. Mmm. Well. He reckons he can show her that he can help her do the job. And it will most certainly be interesting. The previous case had been interesting. He'd like to do another one. And maybe have a little fun – or a lot of fun, all of it involving Detective Beckett - along the way. Perhaps he can lull her into a sense of security, if he can make her think that he's a little goofy, a lot charming, a bit useful. Of course, there will be other moments. Mix it up a bit, so she's on her toes. He can act. He's been acting almost all his life. (_Do this, Ricky. We need a child on stage._) So far, it's got him everything he's ever wanted.

Beckett is hoping, without any great expectations, that the pile of waivers and all the matters that (with a little bit of luck) might damage that too-handsome face or body will put Castle off. Unfortunately, it seems that it's only making him more enthusiastic. If he wasn't such an arrogant ass it would almost be… cute. What? Cute? No. No way. She glares and asks if she can shoot him now. It'll save her so much trouble. And if he were dead he wouldn't be invading her dreams any more. She wouldn't be wondering now if he could be what she's been looking for. He isn't. He can't be. He's going to be a pain in the ass, and she already hates him, for not being what, or who, she wanted him to be. But while he's acting – again – like an overgrown child being given a treat, as if catching killers was a trip to the zoo; at least he's not running that hungry, assessing, undressing gaze over her. Which she tells herself is a considerable relief, and knows it for a lie as soon as she does.

A body drops almost straight away. Beckett discovers a whole new level of irritation equally fast. He touches things. Everything except her. Though she thinks – she's sure, from the way he watches her - he'd do that too, if she let her control slip and gave him the slightest hint of encouragement. He fiddles with her car radio, till she threatens to kill him if he changes the channel again. He wants to put on the lights and siren, and she says she'll arrest him if he abuses cop privileges. And he talks. And talks. And talks, all delivered in a tone that she's certain has opened women up in every possible wicked way. She likes quiet, peace to think, to concentrate: to let the evidence settle in her mind, then twist and reform, till she sees the answer. It's been a long time since she liked noise, and chat, and double-edged, innuendo laden comments, and flirtation. About ten years, in fact, since she grew up in a hurry, and stopped being the wild child on campus. Stopped being on that campus at all.

When they're out the car, he still talks. But now he's questioning her about her personal life. She doesn't talk about that. She won't tell him about her past: he'll definitely only take that as encouragement, something of which he is certainly not in need. He's guessed far too much already. He's flirting again, so she freezes up, again, until he reverts to talking about the murder. And thus it stays, throughout the case. Until the end.

She's in a basement laundry room, trying to talk down a self-harming, semi-suicidal nanny who's killed her lover. She'd told Castle to stay out: his particular brand of irritation will only distract her, introduce a random variable, and likely stress the nanny even further towards something irrevocable; and this takedown will be hard enough when Beckett's fully focused. The nanny is all too likely to use the butcher knife in her hand either to try to kill herself or to take a slice out of Beckett, and while she's trained in self-defence, bare hands against a large knife is not a good equation. She can't afford to be scared, to visualise the possible, horrible outcomes. There's only the moment and the soft voice and the chance to save this girl before her repetitive, horrible, bloody self-harming becomes fatal.

She knows instantly when Castle decides to ignore her and enter. Fortunately the girl doesn't notice, and Beckett manages to finish bringing her down and take her in. Once the nanny's out the way, taken down for processing, matters go to hell in a handcart as soon as she gets into the precinct car park. All the slight – very slight - softening in her views of him has been seared into ash by his arrogant, blind stupidity.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, ignoring my order to stay outside?"

"I…"

"You what? You wanted to see a perp kill themselves? Or did you want to see her stab me?" She's furious, bitter and vicious; each word flung at him; javelins piercing his pride. "Have I hurt your overweening ego so much that you'd go that far?"

_Overweening_? Where does a cop get a word like that? Then what she's just said meets his brain.

"No! I wanted to help."

"Help? You think you know better than me what will help? Tell me when you became a cop, _Mr_ Castle? You just couldn't bear not irritating me, could you? Couldn't stand not being the centre of attention. Well, I hope you think it was worth it. Walking in like that could have made that girl kill herself or attack me. Or didn't you know that, _Mr_ Castle? Or maybe you did know that, and didn't care."

She turns and walks away, leaving him staring at her back, feeling smaller than he ever has in his adult life. He's fucked this up big time, that's for sure. He _had_ wanted to help. He'd also wanted to show her he could help. (_Keep out the way, Ricky. You're not helping_.) Show off. He wants her screaming, but not with pain. He takes a few quick strides, trying to catch up. He knows what he has to do.

"Beckett, wait!" She doesn't break stride. He moves faster, gaining on her before she can reach her car and leave. Somehow he knows that if she drives off now he'll never get a chance to make it better. Not that it looks like he's going to have much of a chance now. He catches up and grabs her shoulder.

"Wait. I want to" –

"To what, _Mr_ Castle? Discuss all the ways that you screwed up? Not interested." She shakes his hand off. She's so angry with him that his touch, which she normally avoids as if it burned, hasn't had the slightest effect on her.

"Apologise. I'm sorry." He hasn't needed to apologise to anyone in years. Everyone always forgives him. Until now, and furious, contemptuous Detective Beckett, showing him all too clearly that he's failed. He hates the feeling of failure apologising brings, and hates more that he's been stupid enough to make it necessary.

She looks up at him with sincere loathing and utter disbelief. He can see that she thinks he's lying. He's not. He's screwed up, and he will damn well show her he can be –_ is_ - man enough to fix it. Try to fix it. She turns sharply away from him and takes fast steps the remainder of the distance to her car, unlocking it remotely as her heels rap on the concrete. He follows. He's not going to let her walk away, thinking _that_ about him. He's not that man.

He catches her arm and forcibly stops her opening the car's door, flipping her round and holding her against the metal, in front of him. "I said_, I'm sorry. _Aren't you even going to acknowledge it?"

"Not interested." Her entire tone says he's not worth listening to, not even worth the effort of annoyance. She doesn't even bother herself to look at him. She's dismissing him, dismissing his apology, not even getting angry. He's never been treated with this cold, disdainful indifference in his life.

"Will you just listen to me for a minute?" He's angry, now, not least spurred by guilt and self-inflicted humiliation, and he's going to make her pay attention. If he has to abase himself, then the least she can do is look at him while he does it. He ignores the small insinuating voice in his head that asks him why he's bothering? He could just leave and turn up tomorrow, forget this ever happened, squash down the worm of his fault; follow her around just like he has done. Except it wouldn't be the same. He's not so drowned in his own PR that he can't see that if he doesn't try, very, very sincerely, to fix this, then she'll never respect him for an instant. And he badly wants her to respect him. Along with… other feelings. Even now, he knows that if she doesn't begin to respect him he'll never get anywhere. And he wants to. Oh so much.

"Why? Don't you like not being listened to?" She's jabbing at him, now, each word punching into him. "Now you know what it feels like. Enjoying it? No? Too bad." She wrenches her arm away and turns to take the door handle. He whips her back round again and holds on to her shoulders so she has to face him. When she looks up the renewed roil of fury in her face is undiluted. She's so angry, he finally understands, not because he put her in danger – though he did – but because he put someone else - the killer, for whom she'd exhibited considerable empathy - in danger. Oh. Another tile in the mosaic of her personality is fixed into place in his mind. He feels even smaller, if that were in any way possible. Shortly he might disappear altogether.

"I'm _trying_ to say sorry. I didn't realise anyone could get hurt." He notices he's still gripping her shoulders, and notices further that she isn't reacting to that in the slightest. He'd thought, from the care she's taken never to touch him, that she would. Not, it seems, in these circumstances. Clearly her passion for her job easily displaces any _other_ passion she might show. He files that for later, and drops his hands, steps a little back, poised to pounce again should she try to leave before she's listened to his apology. He needs her to listen. He needs to make this right.

"Please, listen. I'm _sorry_. I screwed up." It must be the first time in years, outside his home, that he's been this sincere about anything. Something about the rawness in his tone finally penetrates the hard shell of indifference, and Beckett looks at him, still freezingly, icily angry.

"Yes. You did." That falls to the floor and doesn't bounce. She's not inclined to cut him any slack at all. He could have got her injured, and that unhappy girl killed. Just as she'd been starting to come round to the idea that he might not be quite so bad after all, his spoilt, stupid behaviour has reminded her of all the good reasons why she shouldn't let him any closer than she absolutely must, because she's been ordered to.

He looks suddenly miserable, closer to real than she'd thought he could manage. It's almost enough. But she doesn't want to make it easy for him, because if she does he'll do something equally stupid tomorrow or the next day or next week, and it might not be okay in the end. She waits.

"I am sorry," he says quietly, desolately. For the first time she sees a glimpse of the man behind the public face.

"I hear you. Go home, Mr Castle. And don't ever be that stupid again."

She's in the car and pulling away before he understands that he's – if not, undoubtedly not, forgiven – at least still permitted to turn up tomorrow. It helps him recover a small part of his usual ebullience, but as he trudges homeward he's still jabbed by the feeling of failure. It bites hard. He doesn't fail at anything, now. He's been a success for years. And here it's taken ten minutes of his own stupidity and half an hour of Detective Beckett's cold contempt for him to be reduced to the small, insecure child with no long-term friends, scratching and clawing to keep up through a succession of different schools at different stages. (_Don't you know that, Mr Rodgers?) _Always be the cool kid, the class clown, the cocky charmer, and, always hidden, always underneath, work your ass off. That's how you stay liked, and loved, and in control. That's how you don't fail.

Maybe he should try charm a little more consistently on Detective Beckett. Maybe she'd like him better – better? At all - then. Maybe. Because he wants her. Cold contempt or not, he wants her. And in a small dark section of his mind, he wants her more because she won't just roll over and let him have her. He'll make her change her mind. And it'll be all the sweeter when she does. There might be something to this idea of working for reward after all. For a while.

* * *

Beckett's been bitterly disappointed in Castle, and it had fuelled her fury. Intrusive – _penetrating_ flits through her mind and its appeal dismissed without a hearing – personal questions aside, he'd been becoming – not utterly useless. But today his behaviour was not just childish, which might have been marginally excusable, though at – what? Forty? – disconcerting, but far worse, actively dangerous; and for all his supposed intelligence and insight he hadn't realised.

Pause there. It's clear from the tone of his apology and his – clearly disliked – driving need to make her understand the extent of his remorse that, whatever she'd initially thought in the flashfire of fury, it hadn't been malice. That thought carries an unexpected wash of relief. She'd not wanted it to be malice, she realises. Because if it were, whatever it took she'd have had him out. Can't have someone around that you can't trust at all. Not that she trusts him. Not one inch. But there's nothing, still, even after today, to say that she definitely shouldn't trust him. And deep in that small dark unacknowledged corner of her mind, the surreptitious slinking of desire slides out another delicate claw, spreads a little wider.

Back to the point. Hadn't realised. Not malice, possibly not even stupidity. Ignorance. And isn't that why he's making a nuisance of himself following her around like this: to cure his ignorance? Well. He's certainly had a large dose of harsh medicine today. Let's see if it makes any difference.

She drifts into thinking about the whole episode after the nanny had been taken down for processing. It had been a little… odd. For a start, she hadn't expected an apology at all. Self-justification, oh yes. Certainly not the desperate sincerity he'd produced. And it had been desperate. The way he'd gripped her arm, her shoulders – she'll check for bruising, later. He'd been… forceful. Deep down, unnoticed by her conscious mind, the predator's paw stretches out a little further at that thought, puts out another talon. He hadn't _liked_ having to apologise, that's for damn sure. But he'd done it, and kept on doing it till she listened. He'd meant it, that's for damn sure too.

There'd been more than just an intense dislike of apologising, though. She'd not spared him the full venom of her views – not one ounce of it - and behind the mask she'd seen a very unexpected flash of some other emotion: not quite pain, not quite shame, not quite regret. A mix of all of those, perhaps. Hmm. Maybe there's a little more to him than spoilt, childish arrogance. (She doesn't think about the aura of raw sex that he exudes whenever he's alone with her. Not where she has to acknowledge it, anyway. Another talon grips, unseen.)

She deals with the stress of the day in her accustomed fashion: a glass of good wine; (she doesn't drink much, usually, but when she does, it's good quality) a deep, hot bath with soothing, scented oils; a good book; the gentle flicker of candles with the same scent as her bath oil. Gradually, as the wine takes effect and the heat of the water permeates her body, she relaxes, as much as she ever does. When she emerges to wrap herself in a soft, fluffy towel, she's loose-limbed and sleepy, slipping into silky nightwear and soft cotton sheets; slithering down against the pile of pillows; dark hair and eyelashes vivid against the cream bed linens and her skin.

Her dreams await her, soft and sensual, not the edgy darkness that often comes, but smooth, confident strokes and soft touches, gently bringing her higher; careful harmony and delicate counterpoint; control without coercion. Tonight's dream-lover remains perfectly, thankfully, anonymous, and she wakes satisfied, sated and refreshed.

* * *

_Thank you to all guest/unlogged in reviewers. I really appreciate everybody's thoughts._

_I have really been enjoying a story called Surviving Paradise, by **Drdit92**. Go have a look!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: A dirty down addiction**

At home in the loft, Castle manages to put up a façade of normality over dinner, enough to defeat his mother's minimal interest in his day – which for once is welcome, not the irritant it often is – although his daughter is watching him with a certain amount of concern. He drops his first plan; to write out his feelings into the new book, and then write out the other feelings he's imposing on Rook elsewhere, in favour of spending time with Alexis. It always soothes him, to be with her. She's the one thing in his world that never, ever makes him feel small, or lesser.

A couple of hours later, the sting of remembered humiliation has diminished just far enough under Alexis's gentle sympathy - though very fortunately she doesn't know for what her sympathy is required - that Castle is able to write something in his normal style, rather than something that might actually reveal some real emotion. (_Stop crying, Ricky. Crying won't help_.) Well written, sardonic thrillers sell, in their millions. He doesn't need to incorporate his own feelings in order to be a stunning success, Number One Bestseller on every bookstand, Black Pawn's golden boy. Everybody loves him, everybody wants him. Wants a piece of him. It's everything he'd thought he ever wanted, dreamed of having, as a small child backstage at a thousand theatres, new boy in a hundred schools. He'd sworn to himself then, even then, that when he grew up nobody would ever be able to make him do anything he didn't want to; nobody would ever fail to respect, or like, or love him ever again. And he'd made good on it.

Until now. Until today. Until he'd been made to feel so very, very small. None of his wealth, fame, sexy charm and, for women on whom sexy doesn't work – very few - practised adorability had made the slightest difference to icily furious Detective Beckett, who, frankly, my dear, doesn't give a damn. If he hadn't been so humiliated, if just the thought of her face as she reduced him to scrappage hadn't flung him right back to insecure childhood; he'd have been astonished, and impressed, by that. In fact, he realises, nobody at the Twelfth cares about who he is, or what he's done, or what he owns or earns. All they care about is catching criminals, and all they want to know is whether he makes their lives easier, or harder. And as long as it's the former, they'll welcome him in. They don't need him for anything, to be anything, and that's very… relaxing. He doesn't need to be anyone except who he is. If only he were sure who that might be, behind the mask and the fame and the lifestyle. Being welcomed in as just an ordinary Joe would be great, except that Detective Beckett still won't welcome him. Yet. But she will. He's determined that she will. He'll have her respect, and more. She'll _see_ him. Oh yes.

He writes steadily, forcing himself to stay on the right side of emotion so that nobody will expect him to include it in future books. Rook and the Detective have a publishable fight, certainly not involving life-threatening (he winces) stupidity or the sort of raking-down that had been inflicted on him. And then he finds a separate document, neither part of the published version nor part of his fevered private imaginings, and writes out reality. Every word hurts, but when he's done he thinks he's able to face the world again, without feeling quite so much of a fake. He returns to his main manuscript, and carries on for some time, till he's happy that tonight's word count will at least match his own expectations of quality. Gina's might be another matter.

He washes, and retires to bed, but fails to sleep. The feeling of having Detective Beckett's arm, and shoulders, under his hands nibbles at the edges of his mind, now he's written out and dissolved the thick coating of all those other emotions. He contemplates Detective Beckett, in detail. She's totally absorbed by her job. So much so, that when he'd jeopardised her ability to do it, she'd been so coruscatingly angry that she hadn't reacted at all to his hands on her, despite the care she's so obviously taken up till now to avoid any possibility of a touch. Accidental or not. He adds in her unexpected compassion for today's flavour of killer, and her complete refusal to answer anything that comes anywhere close to a personal question. He suspects if he asked her if she preferred pastrami or corned beef on her sandwich she wouldn't answer. The initial flash of arousal, the first time she saw him, that she chopped off short less than two minutes into questioning him. Ah. About the point he started to flirt. Then he adds in everything he'd already deduced – and told her he'd deduced. Finally he tops off with her formal behaviour – towards him, she banters with the bullpen in spades - and clothes. Dress pants and button downs. Very plain. And not at all congruent with the four-inch _fuck-me_ heels and the incineratingly hot body and especially those mile long legs. Not at all.

Detective Beckett simply does not add up. She's complicated. He doesn't like complicated. Women aren't normally complicated: at least the ones he's met up till now. They like dining out and looking good and him. And that's fine. He doesn't want complicated. He likes simple, and easy, and being in control. Dinner, maybe dancing, light flirting, goodbye. Not even bed. He grew out of that one some time ago, about the point he realised that most of the women he met thought that bed equalled relationship. (_Of course I love you, Rick._) Oh no. Ricky Rodgers is not that stupid. He doesn't want relationships, doesn't want his daughter to see that other lifestyle. So up till now he's not much wanted bed, either, not often, and only when he's sure it won't mean anything on either side. Till sex-on-legs Detective Beckett strode into his nice, easy, perfect life and turned his head upside down. Bed is very much on his mind, now. Maybe even a short relationship, while he's still interested in her? No. He's never that interested. He'll be bored soon enough: he's never interested in anything outside his books and his family for very long.

Detective Beckett is only interested in her job, all the time. And that's not just interest, that's obsession. He knows what that looks like. He thinks some more, mainly about why she won't be interested in, play nice with, him. He could make her feel so good, so fast. And she knows it, that's clear, because if she wasn't worried about how she'd react to him she wouldn't care if she touched him or not. That's very nice. He's already got under her skin. It's only a matter of time before she starts to react. Though he could help it along a little, if he wanted. But no. He doesn't need to. She'll come around. He can afford to wait, take it slow, wind her all the way up so that she can't help herself. He always gets what he wants, any way he wants it. And he'll make her want it, too.

He's still irritated that she requires this much effort. He doesn't need to make an effort, usually, to get what he wants. He tells himself it's because she's just playing hard to get, which is a game he understands perfectly and is equally perfectly prepared to play with her. _If that's the way you like it, Beckett, I can play that game with you._ He carefully avoids thinking that anyone else playing hard to get would be giving him the subtle signals that mean they want a come-on. He even more carefully avoids the thought that she's signalling exactly the opposite, most of the time. Because every so often he thinks she's signalling something else. He prefers to think about her rigid control, biting tension and the occasional flash of something that isn't anger and looks an awful lot like it might be arousal. He wonders, intrigued, what would happen if he _accidentally_ touched her. Maybe he should try it. He parks that dark, arousing thought for later, and thinks some more about Detective Beckett at work.

She's not the only one he's been observing. He's been watching the interactions between Esposito and Ryan, Beckett, Montgomery, and the ME, Lanie Parrish. It's all a great deal more interesting than he'd thought, and more complicated. In a good way, this time. Beckett and Dr Parrish are close friends. Given what he's seen, Dr Parrish might be Beckett's only close friend. (in considering the bullpen and homicides, he's dropped his sarcastic emphasis on and use of Beckett's title.) Hmm. Lanie Parrish. There's a woman who thinks Beckett should have more of a life. More, she isn't simply accepting Beckett's views of him. (just as well, really) She might be an asset in his campaign. Better be friends with her. He'd seen Dr Parrish's amused, approving expression when he'd teased Beckett. Though he'd be very happy to explain sex to Beckett any time. Very, very happy. He's quite certain that she'd enjoy his explanations.

Esposito and Ryan. There's a partnership that shouldn't work anything like as well as it does. They've got nothing in common, except their absolute devotion to catching the right guy. And their protectiveness when it comes to Beckett. He's seen the small glimpses of worry when they leave, and she's still staring at her murder board; he's seen a flash of amusement when he baits her. He'd overheard Esposito chaffing her about how good it will be to see Beckett, the ultimate control freak, try to keep him under some sort of control. He snags for a minute on the thought that he'd like to keep her under a very specific sort of control, punctuated by ensuring that she completely loses her own control. All night long. He parks that thought for later, too, and the hot, edgy, private chapters of his Detective and Rook.

Back to Ryan and Esposito. They don't regard him with the same unalloyed disdain that Beckett uses, but they haven't yet warmed to him. They don't need anything from him, so they don't have to try to get friendly. It's up to him to try. Another new, unusual pursuit, these days. Ah well. He'd spent his entire childhood, adolescence, and half his college years making new friends, at very regular intervals. He certainly hasn't forgotten how. Nor has he forgotten how to ensure that, in making new friends, he doesn't get too involved himself. No point getting too involved, when you'll only walk away, or have to leave, soon. Close friends… well. A nice thing to have, he supposes, but hardly a necessity. He's managed just fine with the friends he's got. But – they're real, Esposito and Ryan. More to them than the slick, superficial socialites, politicians and rich authors that he knows. He realises that it would mean far more to earn their acceptance than any of his current friends. Hmm.

And then there's Montgomery. Who keeps regarding him, Castle, with a very knowing expression which reminds him uncomfortably of some of his more perceptive teachers, coupled with a very heavy frosting of sardonic amusement. Castle has the squirmingly unpleasant feeling that Montgomery knows exactly why he shoved his way into the Twelfth, and is taking considerable interest in his inability to consummate – _not_ an accidental word choice – his plans. But then again, if he disapproved Castle is sure that Montgomery would let him know, in no uncertain terms. He might even approve. He's seen the flick of concern when Montgomery leaves, and Beckett's still working, in Montgomery's face too.

It seems, in fact, that everyone around her is at least a little worried about Beckett. That's odd. She's brilliant at her job – so much is obvious – and stunningly sexy, so what's not to like? Who cares, anyway? He wants her in his bed, and he doesn't need to know her history for that. It was just to show her that he's good at detecting too. That's all. Nothing more required. That flash of pain and her complete refusal to tell him anything at all that isn't wholly and specifically about the precinct don't matter for that outcome. And yet both of them eat away at his mind, when he should be writing. Another thing that doesn't add up.

He shakes his head irritably on his pillows. He doesn't need to know this about her. He doesn't care. He's not interested. He cares about her stunning body and her incredible legs and her delicious mouth and her fast mind. That's all. And he wants her in his bed, naked, open and begging, for a night, until he's sated and satisfied; and then they'll part, when he's had enough. She'll stop invading his mind and his dreams and his writing, once he's had her for real. It won't take long, and then he can go back to his simple, controlled, perfectly successful life, with his new, successful character.

He drops off to sleep, still restlessly moving, without having convinced himself of his disinterest, and falls into edgy, disturbing dreams of Detective Beckett raking him down for all his inadequacies; waking unrefreshed. Of course, that's when he gets a call from Beckett about another body. He traipses off to meet her at the scene, wholly convinced that his stupidity will be dragged up every few moments for the rest of time. His interest is definitely piqued by the corpse, though, it's a high schooler from one of the better private schools. And Beckett isn't mentioning yesterday at all. It's almost as if it had never happened. Strange. His experience is that when you fuck up it's thrown back at you for weeks. (_What were you thinking of, Ricky? Can't you get anything right, Mr Rodgers?_) He recovers a reasonable amount of bounce and enthusiasm, quite quickly, though he also listens extremely carefully for anything that might be an order, and considers why it might have been given before doing anything. Of course, that doesn't stop him very obviously looking Beckett up and down and making it clear that he'd like to know what underwear she's wearing, because then she always reacts to him. He'll take almost any form of attention, as long as she doesn't revert to the cold indifference that says he's got nothing she cares about, nothing she cares for.

When they get the school kid who'd done it into interrogation, he turns out to be a spoilt little rich boy who seems to think that it's okay to suggest pawing Beckett. She's glacially unimpressed. Castle is infuriated, but manages to hide it. The only person who should be suggesting that sort of a game in this room is him. Beckett's going to be his, soon, and some smug, smarmy little toad is not going to insult her in front of him and get away with it. And the best form of stopping his slime will be putting him away. So he starts drawing him in, and, amazingly, Beckett lets him do it. He pretends to have things in common with this privileged princelet – if he'd grown up with that sort of background and money, he'd probably never have made his name; he has _nothing, nothing _in common with this teen's gilded life – and it works. He feels sky-high. It's completely washed away the shame of the previous case, because this time he's done something right. More, something useful: something that actually really truly matters. And even Beckett is regarding him with favour. Well, without extreme dislike. He's made her life easier, and she's almost being nice to him. He thinks about asking her to come for a drink – dinner seems a stretch too far – but decides not to push his luck. Not today. He can be patient, if he must. But he's been useful, and Beckett's being civilised, if distinctly cool, and maybe he's getting in. But she still makes very sure that they never, ever touch.

Three weeks of _research_ and observation has taught him quite a lot already. Beckett cares about one thing only, and that's justice. She expects her team to fit a certain mould: they work hard – really hard, though not as hard as she does – they're fit, they shoot straight, they're clever. Beyond that, she doesn't care about anything. She never seems to go home, or go out, or socialise. She doesn't seem to go in for personal discussions: then again, neither do the other two. There's so much that just never gets spoken, but somehow seems to be clearly understood between them. So he needs to show her that he belongs on the team. That he's as good as they are. That she should notice him; as part of the team; as a useful resource; and not at all at least, as a man. He begins to plan how to achieve that, and resolutely does not think about the amount of effort he's putting into impressing Beckett, when he never has to _try_. And then he goes home that night, and opens the private pages of his own personal wish-fulfilment and x-rated fantasy, and begins.

Tonight his malleable, invented Detective isn't spiky, or angry, or cold, or even irritated. She's tired from a long day, curled like a kitten on Rook's lap, content to be petted and stroked and held. Rook's happy to oblige, for now, stealing occasional kisses and waiting for an opportune moment to take gentle advantage of this unusually yielding, pliant mood. It doesn't happen often, Castle decides. His play Detective doesn't go in for softness, at least at this point in proceedings. Mostly, she likes it to be a little rough, a lot demanding, and a whole lot more possessive. But today his imagination has been caught by a marginally more pleasant, less spiky Beckett, and he's thinking about how that might be if it went a bit further towards niceness. Rook steals another kiss, and this time pulls her in a little tighter, positions her a little more accessibly, drops her head back on the couch arm so her neck's open to him, undoes a button on her shirt. She stretches out a little in his grasp, relaxed and boneless, hums softly, encouragingly. Rook slides a large, warm hand round her shoulder, runs his fingers over her collarbone, slips a little lower and waits to see what will happen next.

The Detective – he really must find her name – nestles in, smiles sleepily, eyes three-quarters shut, hand lightly in Rook's shirt; slow half-movements almost unconsciously sliding over the cotton. She's had a successful day, case closed, bad guy put away. All the late nights, lack of sleep, catching up with her as the adrenaline drains down and out: not the cliff-edge crash it sometimes is, when she's hard asleep almost before she hits the pillow, but a slow seepage, taking her tension, the driving need to solve the case harder, faster,_ sooner_, with it. The unusual feeling of relaxation swirls around her, enclosed in warmth and the slow snare drum beat of Rook's heart beneath her ear. She doesn't go in for soothing petting; that's too much, too close to a real relationship where she might have to expose her own raw edges. She's not looking for one of those; yet somehow, some way, here she is, all snuggled up like it's easy on Sunday morning; unwilling to move, to leave, go home and sleep alone, the way she ought to.

Rook likes this seldom – never – seen softness; a side of his fierce Detective that she's not previously revealed to him. She's so sexy at full force, forward momentum and full speed ahead, bad-ass and just so _hot_; she wants him and she makes that clear, but she fights him every moment for dominance, fights his size and mass and bulk every instant, only gives in to him at the last possible point when she can't deny what she wants, her own dark desires and midnight needs, any more: she wants him but she never openly says so, never asks, until he brings her to frantic begging beneath him. But tonight is different, she is different, soft and yielding, all the hard angles turned to curves and the snap of command dissipated, dispersed. He tucks her in closer, a little more protectively, cradling her in the crook of his arm, the cradle of his body, hoping to bring her closer to him, to understand and take away the pain he's seen flickering through her eyes, to solve this mystery –

Castle abruptly stops his typing, appalled by what he's just written. He doesn't want that. He doesn't need to know. He's already decided that's not part of the game. He just needs to get Detective Beckett out his system. Take her to bed and be done. He'll get what he wants, they'll both enjoy it, and then he can follow her team around for however long it takes, however many books, without this irritating tension, this burning need to know her story. It's only because she won't succumb, though he knows she's into him. That's all.

He's sucker-punched by the sudden memory of the hot roar of possession that had thundered through him as that spoilt, cocky little rich boy had leered and ogled and wiped his slimy gaze all over Beckett; spoken to her as if she was some streetwalker or stripper to be mauled and disrespected. Well, not while he, Castle, is around her. The only man – _man_, not some greasy, spotty, callow adolescent who'd never be Beckett's choice or match – who's going to touch Beckett, talk dirty to her, heat her up and turn her on and make all her overdeveloped control melt faster than snow in sunshine… is him. No-one else. She's going to be his, for as long as he wants her, and he doesn't share his toys.

Deep inside, in a small walled-off corner of his mind, he imprisons any hint of a notion that he's lying to himself; that there's already far more to this than simply having what he wants; far more than the sting of hurt pride and the hatred of failure. He won't fail: he'll have her, and she'll want him to; want him, too. He's _Rick Castle_, and he doesn't fail at anything, any more.

* * *

_Thank you to guest and unlogged in reviewers, whom I cannot thank individually, and to those who have favourited and followed. I really enjoy knowing what you are thinking about this story._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Bad boys, bad boys**

Over the next few days no new bodies drop. Unfortunately, that doesn't mean that Beckett gets peace and quiet. Castle turns up at some point almost every day, far too rapidly insinuating himself into Ryan and Esposito's affections with a detailed knowledge of almost every boy's-own computer game ever made and what Beckett can only assume the boys take as flattering interest in everything they do and how they do it. Shortly they're trading fist bumps and banter and probably baseball cards, too. It irritates her beyond belief to have her well-oiled team distracted in this way, though if she could bring herself to be fair she'd admit that their solve rate hasn't dropped at all. Even Montgomery's best pals with her pain-in-the-ass shadow. She'd thought he had more smarts than that, even if the boys don't.

He wants to know everything about everything. Never stops questioning, extracting details she didn't even know she knew. It's an interrogation, every day. He stands, or sits, fractionally too close for comfort, all the time, taking up more space than is in any way necessary; the looming mass of physical bulk giving an edge of intimidation that's all the more effective for being entirely unconscious. She's not sure that she could take him in a fight, if he were fit. But he's only a writer: not likely to be in shape, and she's tough: she spars regularly with the big guys and with Espo, who's the toughest man in the bullpen.

He's still a smug, arrogant irritant, but since he apologised he's at least listened to what she says, respecting her control of the crime scenes and the cases. And every so often he says something useful.

But he hasn't once failed to make it clear that he still wants her, without saying a single word – which is amazing, because he never _stops_ talking, and his voice slithers into her synapses and leaves her damp and frustrated. He undresses her with his eyes, each morning, as if he knows that she wears silk, or lace, beneath; flimsy scraps of seduction, were anyone to see them; he watches her as if he'd bought those same scraps for her, or dressed her in them. She likes attractive underwear: Victoria's Secret, La Perla; it makes her feel good. Powerful. Just the knowledge that she could open her shirt and men would fall, open-mouthed, at her feet (and they have) adds an edge to her confidence, and it shows in the sway in her walk, the swing of her hips, the flow of her stride.

His gaze scorches down her skin, whenever the boys can't see. He's putting a _lot_ of effort into showing her that he wants her, and deep inside the dark petals of desire unfold a little further. She knows what she likes, and if he weren't still so very obviously sure that he could have her whenever he wanted, he'd be exactly what she liked. In her blazing dreams, he _is_ exactly what she likes: big and heavy, hard, hot and possessive. With every dream, the next day becomes a little more charged, her movements more liquid, the heat that she doesn't acknowledge ratchets up a little higher. There's a constant tension in the air, threads of unspoken want weaving into connections, bindings. She's hyper-aware of where he is, what he's doing; constantly conscious of the movements of his large hands, long fingers; always completely controlled, precise. She likes the implications in those fingers. Oh yes. If only she liked him. But she doesn't. She hates the way he assumes he'll have her, soon. She hates the way he looks at her with the promise of dark, forbidden sex blazing in his eyes. She hates the way he thinks she'll change her mind. She won't. No matter how good she knows it would be. She won't be that easy. Not for anyone.

Today, her personal pestilence wants to see the gym. She's busy, with the paperwork that never grows less. The mills of 1PP grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small. So she tells him with a snap that he'll have to wait until the end of the day, and hopes that a body will drop so that at least she can be out of this confining, claustrophobic, charged atmosphere. Of course, she couldn't be that lucky, and at the end of the day he's reminding her of her promise to show him, as enthusiastic as a child in a new playground. She doesn't hasten to finish the final forms, tidies her desk with smooth, unhurried precision, leaning slightly forward to stow files away. She knows he's looking at the vee in her button-down, precisely calculated to reveal nothing and promise everything.

He follows her upstairs, attention riveted on the way she moves. He's never seen a woman with this fluid, feline grace before, not even on the catwalks. Her legs would make angels cast aside their wings and harps and halos, just for the promise of seeing her smooth sashay and the hope of uncovering them, stroking from heel to hip, and inward, and having them wrapped around their waist. Oh, the heat that he'd generate in her with ministrations to those legs - He abruptly realises that he has a name for _his_ Detective: the one who does everything, anything, he wants her to. Heat. That's her surname. She'll have a given name, soon. Something spiky, edgy, provocative. He watches Beckett – she's Beckett, now, it's what the bullpen calls her, how she answers her phone, a sharp snap of command even in that one word, but he still doesn't even know her first name, so how can he hope to command her – and thinks about the possibilities inherent in, and between, those legs. And suddenly he has the whole name. Nikki. Nikki Heat. Sharp, long, angular Ks make the name just right.

The gym is shabby, the walls emanating the aroma of sweat, and institutional exercises; the aura of purpose from uniformed service penetrating everything, a focused intensity directed to the simple goal of catching criminals. There's no kit, no machines, just lockers against the wall, a door through to some showers, and a punchbag to one side. There are mats on the floor, a dirty brownish-grey, rough-surfaced from, he presumes, years of cop training and sparring. Utilitarian, and so very different from his own top-class facility, all the latest training machines, sparkling clean, screens to watch or docks for the i-Pod that he listens to.

"Do you train here?" He can't quite picture it, Beckett in sweats in this dingy room.

"Defensive drills. Sparring." She doesn't allow him a single syllable of response beyond the absolute minimum. He raises a disbelieving, arrogant eyebrow, deliberately running his gaze up and down every inch of her body.

"You? Spar?"

He knows what he's doing. If he can't get her attention one way, he's going to do it another. He's going to show her that he can take her in a fight: that he's not just some useless, feeble Writer-Boy. He's heard her refer to him as that, with an edge of hard contempt that flicks him on the raw every time she uses it. He'll show her he's a man, not a boy. (_You're too young, Ricky. I'm going with a senior, not a freshman._) And it seems that the only way to do that is to prove his masculinity in the ways she sees around her in the bullpen: intelligence, shooting, sparring. He's trying intelligence, and it hasn't worked yet; he hasn't had a chance to shoot. So, sparring, with Beckett. To do that, he needs to make her angry enough that she'll challenge him. After that, however good she is, his weight and height and reach should prove decisive. He'll pin her to the mat, and then she'll see him. Oh yes, she'll see him then. He thinks he sees her: there's the occasional flicker in her eyes that speaks of intrigue and interest, and he hasn't forgotten the way she assessed his body the first day he arrived here. Nor is he unaware of the spiralling tension between them: it's not only he who's aware of her.

"Yes." It's bitten off, clipped short. He looks even more disbelieving.

"You're too small to take down the big guys." Got her. There's a flare of absolute fury in her eyes.

"I've taken down plenty bigger guys than you."

"Prove it. Bet you can't take me down." It's an effort to add that last word. But the tone of _I don't believe you can_ has had exactly the right effect. She's too angry to think about what she's saying.

"I can."

"If you can't, you come out to dinner."

"Done."

It's only when she sees the triumphant look on his face that she realises what she's just committed to. Not just getting up close and personal sparring with Rick-_millionaire-playboy_-Castle but if she loses, going to dinner with him. _Fuck_. She's been, quite expertly, played. _Fuck._ It occurs to her, with a trail of creeping horror, that he's actually intelligent, and worse, he's used that and three weeks of _research_ to work out at least some of her triggers._ Shit_. Still, she's fully fit, in training, and she's never backed down from a challenge in her whole adult life. She's not going to start now. She'll take him down. It's an effort to add the last word. The thought of a very … physical… exchange of opinions is slithering through her synapses, pooling low down in her body. She smiles, and there are knives in it.

"Any time you're ready, Writer-Boy." She doesn't hide the derision in her voice.

He smiles, slowly, darkly; hints of midnight in his eyes. "Later tonight." The smile adds a broken-glass edge. "Wouldn't want you to lose in front of your team." It's not his plan to see her humiliated in public, or indeed at all. That won't get him what he wants, and more, it's unfair. The time he's already spent here has shown him that she's a damn good cop, and he's not going to do anything to damage that. Not after he'd been so very comprehensively reduced to nothing after that nanny. But he's getting to her. He intends to win. The sparring match, and her. He always gets what he wants. It hasn't occurred to him that he's already put far more effort into getting the apparently completely unreceptive Beckett than he's bothered expending on any woman ever before. Proximity, and antagonism, have not abated his obsession in any way. The more she pushes him away, the harder he pushes forward. He needs to know her. In so very many ways.

"You're on. But I won't lose."

She doesn't go home. She'd rather sit staring at her murder board, trying to get some use out the dead time. She has sweatpants and a T-shirt in her locker, a towel to clean up after. But all the time she's working she can feel the sharp thrum of arousal, pressing on her mind, sparking in her veins. She's made certain she never touches him, never lets him touch her, even accidentally, after the nanny. The way he looks at her is disturbing enough. And now he's tricked her into sparring. She'd better win this, in short order.

By the time Castle returns it's close to ten and the bullpen's empty and dark, except for the small puddle of light around Beckett and the murder board. He takes a moment simply to view her silhouette, and deal with the stab of hard desire. He'll need to concentrate, if he intends to win. If he gets distracted, he's no doubt at all that Beckett, who will be fully focused on defeating him, will tear him to metaphorical shreds. So he won't be distracted. Which may well be difficult. The thought of finally putting his hands on Beckett has been distracting him for four hours. He hasn't failed to spot that she's avoided so much as a brush of fingers since the day she pulled him in for questioning, except that once, when she was too angry to notice or care. He files that, along with certain other pieces of evidence, for later consideration.

"Ready?" he asks, in his best obnoxious, arrogant, tone. He's going to put her off-balance, angry, before she even begins. He notes with annoyance that she hasn't even bothered to change yet. If she thinks that she can throw him off his game by making him wait, she's wrong. He's very patient, when he's stalking something he wants.

"Bring it on." She's halfway up the stairs to the gym before she's finished the words. He follows at his own, leisurely, pace. He won't be hurried, in this or any other dealings with Beckett. Oh no, he won't hurry at all. Not even if – when - she begs him to. He'll make her wait. Just like she's making him wait to have her.

Beckett realises that this might not be as easy as she'd thought when she comes out, changed, and takes a good look at Castle. In T-shirt and sweats it's clear that he's a lot more muscular than a writer has any right to be. In fact, he looks very, very fit, and the dark edge of danger is palpable. And he's a lot bigger than she'd thought, now she's in bare feet. A twinge of uncertainty, swiftly followed by a twinge of heat, flicks over her. He's seriously hot. And she hates that she's noticed it now, when she has to win, can't afford to be distracted.

They're circling each other, sizing up, searching for the tells and signals that will give one of them an edge. Beckett's beginning to worry that she might not win: she has the impression that Castle's done this before. He looks practised: relaxed and easy. She spars with the big guys, but Castle's at least the size of any of them, and he's got an agenda that the others don't. She's never had the slightest interest in any of them, nor they in her. Neither is necessarily true now, and she remembers that there is nobody else around at all. The conviction that this was a bad idea takes firm root. Mixing it with the bad boys in a dark and empty building is something she thought she'd left behind. The slither of arousal reminds her she hasn't. She knows what she likes, but hard body or not, she doesn't even like him. But he's just so damn sexy, and she can't get him out of her dreams. If she told herself the truth, she'd admit she doesn't want to. In her hot, dark, edgy dreams, he's _exactly_ what she wants.

She's still circling, waiting her chance, never taking her eyes off him, tracking the feints and movements, despite her thinking. When he moves, she's ready, slips to the left and evades him, comes round with a kick that should have rocked his kidneys – except he isn't there, he's just out of strike range. It's her turn to try an attack move, sweeping to take his legs away, following up with a body punch that connects and makes him exhale hard. She sees it with dark satisfaction, gains confidence and begins to come forward into the fight, pressing him hard.

Castle is impressed. Beckett's clearly learned how to make the best of her abilities, and she's vicious. He wonders momentarily if she's rough in bed, scratching and clawing and fighting for what she wants, a wildcat. He likes the thought, likes the idea that he could tame her into a purring kitten as he strokes her. He returns all his attention as she lands a full-blooded kick into his shoulder. But she's missed one thing, because criminals clearly aren't very subtle in a fight. She hasn't realised that he isn't using his much longer reach to keep her at a distance any more. In fact, he has a strategy: let her get in close and then trap her. She's still advancing, thinking that because he's solely defending she has the advantage of him, lands another painful combination of solid hits – he's watching her carefully, since he doesn't believe for one moment that she won't fight dirty if she thinks she'll win by doing so, and he'd like his assets intact – and shifts that one final critical step into range.

He pounces on her, catching both wrists and pulling her off balance, using all his weight and her momentum to bring her in, taking her feet away with a swept kick then letting her fall, dropping over her as the breath rushes out her lungs and pinning her to the mat. When she tries to bring a knee up to incapacitate him he gives in to all his urges and rolls on to her, holding her hands above her head, taking part of his own weight on his elbows, and pushing her feet apart so there's no way she can pull any of the dirtier tricks he can think of. He likes this: Beckett spread and pinioned under him, sweat-slicked and panting. This is the first step to what he'd wanted since the first moment he saw her, and now he's got it. She's still struggling to reverse the positions, but she doesn't have the weight or the leverage. He's won, and there's no way she can argue with it.

Beckett is furious with herself. She'd given him one opening, and he'd taken it. And now she's lost the fight, and the bet, and she's flat on her back with Castle on top of her in a very compromising position and smirking like there's no tomorrow. Worst of all, having his weight pressing down against her and her hands trapped is reminding her almost irresistibly of her hot, edgy dreams; she's suddenly aware of just how heavy his big body is and where he's resting and how little it would take to arch up and rub against him. She can feel wetness begin to gather at her core, her nipples hardening, desire unfolding and stretching out inside her body and her mind. His expression is changing too, from smirk to dark, focused intent, and she becomes very aware that she's not the only one excited by this position. She stops struggling, before she turns it into … some other form of movement against his hard arousal. It's all too close to how she'd dreamed, and maybe his personality is annoying but his physicality is certainly… not.

"Do you accept I've won?" She growls unhappily.

"Yes," she spits out. "You can move now." Before she gives in to her own instincts and rubs up against him in a very particular way. She hates him, but she wants him, but she won't give in to what she wants when he is so damn annoying and so damn sure she'll capitulate. But she really wants him.

"Oh, I don't know that I want to, Beckett. I like this position. Don't you? I really think this is very nice indeed: you pinned under me. I liked it even more when you were squirming, but you stopped. I won't mind if you start again, though." He smiles, deliberately happily, at the look of fury on her face. He's quite sure that she's planning how best to kill him and hide the body. She's so _hot_ when she's angry. Especially when she's angry and aroused. He wants her, more than he's wanted anything for a very long time.

For an instant he considers simply kissing her, possessing her lips and conquering her mouth. He can feel that she's excited, sees her eyes darken and her gaze drop to his mouth, senses the control she's hanging on to by a single fine thread, and if he took her mouth right now she'd be right there in it. She bites her lip and it's almost irresistible. He wants to bite back. But she's his obsession and he's going to make sure when he does have her she'll be there for as long as he wants her. That means waiting for her to learn that she wants him. He'll deal with his desire later. He can feel another chapter of his private book shoving against the edges of his mind. And anticipation is the best sauce. It'll be so much more satisfying when _she_ comes to _him_. When she gives in to the pull between them.

"I'll let you know where dinner will be in good time. You'll need a dress." He sits back on his heels, pulling her up to sitting in front of him, watching her dilated eyes and parted lips. "Till tomorrow, Beckett. We could always do this again then. You seemed to like it. I'll be happy to oblige, any time."

As he leaves, he hears the pounding of fists and feet against a punchbag.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers, especially guest and unlogged in reviewers whom I can't thank personally._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Dressed to kill**

She's still angry the following day, when he slides a slip of paper under her nose with the address of the restaurant on it. She recognises it, small, exclusive, intimate; not the sort of publicly famous place that she expects this spoilt, attention seeking writer to choose.

"You'll want to wear a dress, if you want to fit in. Do you even own a dress?" he whispers, making it clear that he doesn't expect it. "I've never even seen you wear a skirt." His insultingly obvious disbelief in her ability to dress in something other than pants fires her blood, and even though she _knows_ he's playing her, she can't step back from the line. She'll show him how well she can dress. She'll leave him drooling and helpless in front of her, and then she'll walk away after dinner and leave him frustrated, hot and wanting. Two can play this angry, arousing game, and she intends to show him everything he can't have, trail temptation in front of him and not give in herself. But deep inside she knows she's dancing on the blade of the razor, because dressing the way she intends to would mean that she were issuing an open invitation for the whole night, if it were any other man. She feels the thrill of danger, and welcomes it. And just a little, under all her fury, she wonders if she can make him lose control, bring him to the point where he wants her so badly he'll just reach out and take it. Take her. Heat slithers down her nerves, slinks secretively through her mind, at the thought. If she can make him lose control… then she's won, in this game of resistance.

She dresses with extreme care. Silk underwear in stark black against her ivory skin, caressing the curves it minimally covers. This set is her favourite, and wearing it makes her feel feline, feral. Thigh high hold ups, lace topped. If she sits just right – and she knows exactly how to sit to do it - there'll be a flick of lace visible, just at the hem of her dress. She'll make him look twice, thrice, and more. And he won't ever be able to touch. Dark satisfaction prowls through her body. The dress fits her to perfection, promises everything and gives nothing. It's a dress to tantalise, to tease, to drive men wild. Black heels, higher than she'd wear to work, changing her walk from the confident strut of daytime to the sensual slither of deep, starless night. And to cover it all, a dark cashmere wrap, sinfully soft against her shoulders. Hair slicked up, a lone tendril teasing at her neck, just below her ear, drawing attention to the pale smooth skin, unmarked. Waiting to be marked, perhaps. No jewellery except the chain she always wears. Eyes made huge with black mascara and smudged liner, lipstick that screams to be removed. She looks herself up and down in the mirror, and there are sharp edges in her dark smile. She's dressed to kill, and in a restaurant downtown the victim's waiting to die.

He expects her to be late, and so he's not surprised to find it so. She's trying to prove that he can't control her, but he won't be rattled by that move. He'll have her. Soon enough. Her reactions to being pinned down on the gym floor had been very revealing. She's not only fighting him. She's fighting herself. And he still doesn't know why, can't see why she should back away from something that they'd both enjoy – till he'd had enough of her, just like he's got bored of nearly every other woman in the last twenty years - though he thinks that the flash of pain, the occasional off-key reaction, and the thick layers of reserve and ice are all connected.

And then she walks in, shrugs her shoulders and lets the wrap fall away and _oh fuck she's got to be mine_ is all his addled brain can think as he stands to greet her.

She's wearing a shimmer of sin, sex in a silk slip dress, nightfall stroking from her shoulders to six inches above the knee, midnight heels whispering _take me_ with every step and _fuck_ he has never seen anything so hot in his whole entire life. It takes all his hard won control and every scrap of acting ability he's ever had not to seize her mouth till she's moaning, then walk her out the door, push her up against a wall and take everything that dress promises. But he's not that man. She's done this quite deliberately, and while he applauds her intelligence, and her ability to read him like he's a Times Square advert, he's not going to dance to her tune. He really isn't. He is _not_ going to lose control like a frat boy at his first party. He thinks about glaciers for a moment or two. It barely helps. Instead he smiles, putting a heavy hint of _so you dressed up to please me_ behind it. He's astonished that he's managed to do so, given that all he can think is _mine, bed, now_. He sees the exact moment she recognises it, and the fury behind her eyes as he slowly looks her up and down, showing her his heat as he thinks of peeling her slowly out of the dress, nipping and licking and sucking all the way down. He's suddenly certain, from only the way that she undulates towards the table, that under the seductive silk dress is the sort of underwear that nice girls don't even _think_ about wearing. Detective Beckett is obviously not a _nice_ girl. She might well be a very naughty girl indeed. He halts that train of thought before he drags her out the door to find out.

"You clean up _good_, Detective Beckett." She flicks a contemptuous glance at him, and doesn't bother to answer. He politely pulls her chair out for her, waving away the waiter, and waits while she seats herself. When she crosses her legs and he thinks he sees a flash of black lace skirting the hem of her dress, he _knows_ she's a bad girl. Game _on_, Detective. Oh, very much game on. She forces out a _thank you_ through obviously gritted teeth, manners – just – defeating anger. But he can't stop looking at her legs. She doesn't even re-cross them, and he just can't help staring in case she does.

His dropped jaw and stunned expression would have made her feel so much better, if he hadn't got his game face back almost immediately. She hangs on to the thought that she's rocked his world, and however much he's covering up he can't hide that exposure of his shock and wholesale arousal. She sits slightly sideways on the chair, and resists the temptation to cross and uncross her legs a few more times, for effect. That would be tacky. She doesn't do tacky. It looks like she doesn't need to, either. He hasn't taken his eyes off her legs since she walked in. Suddenly her feral, satisfied mood is reinstated. He's completely unable to hold on to his composure. She smiles slowly, and flexes her shoulders just a little. That gets his attention off her legs, though it still hasn't made it to her face.

"Eyes are up here, Castle." There's an undertone to her voice. He thinks it's …_satisfaction_? Definitely not a _nice_ girl. Mmmm. Maybe this evening might end rather better than he'd expected. He produces a slow, significant smile of his own and brings his gaze very deliberately up to her face.

"I like the dress, Beckett. Not your usual style."

"Wouldn't want to be predictable, Castle."

"You're never that."

No. If she were predictable, she'd have been in bed with him four weeks ago. He stops. Has he really been chasing after Beckett for four weeks already? And she _still_ hasn't succumbed? What's she taking? More to the point, what's _he_ taking, that he hasn't just given up? Well, he knows that. The more she backs off, the more determined he is that he'll get what he wants. He changes the subject of his thoughts. If all she's interested in is her job, well, he wants to know everything about her job, (and her, but he's ignoring that idea in the hope it'll get bored and go away. He doesn't need to know anything about her, beyond the job) and if he manages to start her talking then maybe he can manoeuvre the conversation round to more… interesting… subjects when she's a little less closed off. Because despite the dress and her clear satisfaction at stunning him into momentary silence, she's about as open to discussion – verbal or physical - as a bank vault.

"What'll happen to that boy from the last case? I mean, what happens once we're" – she raises a delicately cynical eyebrow – "you're – finished with him, once he's confessed." And… it works. Interrupted only by ordering – he's not dumb enough to try ordering for her – and eating, she runs through the whole procedure, adding some explanatory comments every time he asks for more detail. It might be more words than she's ever been required to say to him at one time. Under every word, her anger at his effect on her ratchets up a little further, her frustration that she has to answer him builds, and the tension across the table, which has only a very small part to do with either that anger or that frustration, tightens. But when she's finished telling him about the process, she looks a little remote, and the tension disappears.

"Such a waste."

"What's a waste?"

"Both lives wasted. Both dead. They'd got everything in front of them, and it was all taken away." She's looking out into some far space, now with something he doesn't know how to interpret in her eyes. It's another off-key reaction, not just normal empathy for the situation.

"You okay?" She snaps back to the here-and-now from wherever she went, shakes her head as if to clear it.

"Yeah." There's no intimation that she wants to continue that line of conversation. Chopped off short. A bit like her dress. She crosses her legs and he's instantly distracted. His mind flips back to the dress, and the slightly larger hint of lace now visible at the hem. Suddenly the tension's right back.

Beckett pulls her mind off her own history and realises that Castle is looking very curiously at her: quite unlike the undressing, assessing gaze that he normally produces when they're alone. When he asks if she's okay it almost sounds like a genuine query. But she doesn't want to talk about that. So she cuts him off by re-crossing her legs and watches him lose his train of thought. That's better. She runs her own gaze over him while he isn't looking and thinks about the heat currently burning behind his eyes and in his voice and the edge of danger he'd displayed when they were sparring. He's big, and she suspects that if he wanted to be, he'd be frightening. He's certainly big enough to be, well, _up to her weight_. So to speak. She remembers that she'd been inclined to test the boundaries of his control. She considers whether to do that, to distract him further, well away from her history. She badly wants to win this game, regain the advantage, leave him as much of a mess as he's making her. She'll make him dream of her, tonight.

She excuses herself and makes absolutely certain that she walks to the restroom with the swaying, slinky, catwalk sashay that she'd learnt from other models, a long time ago. She knows every male eye in the restaurant is welded to her walk, and it feels so _good_. In particular, Castle's gaze is burning a hole in her back. Oh yes. She's going to make _him_ burn, and then go home. Alone. She hasn't done this since she was nineteen and teasing seemed like a good plan, but she doesn't care that in normal operating mode she wouldn't ever do this in a million years. She doesn't care that she doesn't promise and then not deliver. (Not that she's done either in a long time.) She doesn't care that there are words for what she's doing, and none of them are pleasant. Her temper's up at boiling point, has been since the moment he appeared in her nice, civilised, solitary life; and _all_ she cares about is turning him into a shuddering wreck and making him as hot and frustrated and angry as she is. And then she'll feel better, and he'll just _go away_. No man would stay after being treated like this.

She washes her hands as slowly as possible to buy herself some time and checks herself out in the mirror. She looks spectacular, the anger flaming in her mind lending fire to her eyes. When she walks back out she's prowling, the fluid, feline slink of a leopard on the hunt.

Castle is extremely interested in Beckett's current behaviour. If it had been any other woman, he'd have known exactly how to interpret it: and he'd have been planning how to gently disabuse her of her obvious hopes. But it's not any other woman, it's Beckett, and he doesn't believe for a moment that her performance – this is clearly a performance; and although behind it there might be as much real desire for him to take her home, slowly strip her naked, and turn her into a hot, melted mess as he has to do it he doesn't think that she's allowing that to hit her mind – has anything at all to do with wanting him to take her home. Which he does. So much. Every move she makes and word she says with that slightly husky, unconscious undertone screams sex; not gentle kisses and soft strokes, delicately twisting the tension tighter and bringing both parties to complete culmination, but hot, hard, dirty sex, the sort that rips clothes and leaves marks and doesn't make it to the bed. He can give her that, no question, pin her to the wall and make her scream. He watches her flow back to the table, and imagines how she'd flow around him.

"You walk like a model. Ever been one?"

"No," she lies. Her history isn't relevant to this association. She sees a whisper of disbelief in his eyes and doesn't care that he's guessed she's lying.

"That's a shame. You'd have been good at it." And _gotcha, Beckett_ as she rises to the bait.

"I'd rather be doing something meaningful, not prancing down a catwalk. Finding justice for -" She slams her mouth shut on the rest of that sentence.

"For?" He can't resist the question. There was another flash of that strange, off-key reaction.

"For the relatives of the victim." But there'd been a suspicious pause. A whole wall of tiles suddenly slides into perfect alignment to form the whole pattern in his mind. He already knows something really bad happened to someone close to her, that the person responsible was never caught. Now he knows that she hasn't got past it: that, most likely, it was murder, and the killer was never caught. He reminds himself that he doesn't need or want to learn this, and swiftly changes the subject.

"Would you like dessert?" he asks smoothly, and sees the catwalk centrefold reappear.

Time for some more distraction, Beckett thinks. "Yes, thank you." It's certainly the best meal she's had in months; she might as well enjoy it to the hilt. She'll not be coming out to dinner, or anywhere else, with Writer-Boy again, after the way she's about to deal with him. She's going to wreck him, and then walk away.

Dessert is delicious, every slow, slithering spoonful, tongued delicately from the cutlery and savoured, rolled around her mouth, any stray smudge licked from her lips. By the time she's done Castle is speechless, fixated on her mouth and clearly imagining everything else she might be able to do. She'll be surprised if he can stand, let alone walk, now. Dinner's over. She'd rather have coffee at home. And she's got through this meal, shown Castle everything he can't have, without giving into her own desire, fuelled by the way she's dressed and the expression he can't hide, or revealing anything about herself. She can go back to work tomorrow perfectly satisfied. And with only a little bit of luck, after this he won't be there.

"Thank you for dinner," she says very politely and very coolly. Castle whips his eyes up to hers, and _dammit_ he still seems to be able to function. Hell. What does she have to do to leave him whimpering and useless?

"Oh, but surely we're not done. It's been such a nice evening" – that's an interesting interpretation of _nice_ – "I wouldn't like it to end so soon." He smiles deviously. "Wouldn't you like coffee?"

"No thank you. I have to get home. Some of us have to work for a living."

"As you wish." He acquires and settles the check with one small flick of the eyes towards the waiter. "Of course, it wouldn't be polite not to escort you home." He puts on a saintly expression which deceives Beckett not at all. "Can't leave your date to go home alone. It's not polite." Her mouth drops open, and she snaps it shut. _Date_? This is not a _date_. But he's daring her to object with every crinkle around those wicked, wicked blue eyes, and he's somehow purloined her wrap from the waiter and is holding it out for her and she just cannot see how to get out of the next ten seconds without causing the sort of scene that will appear on page six regardless of how discreet this restaurant is. She's spent four weeks ensuring he never touches her, and from his expectant, dark, hungry look that's running through each synapse and prickling down her spine and pooling in places she shouldn't be thinking about with him only inches away, he's not only noticed it, he's intending to remedy it. She gathers all her self control. She can do this. He's just an irritant: a hyperactive, childish irritant who won't stay out her sleep. Even if he's big and muscular and intelligent and a bad boy who's capable of taking her in a fight and leaves her sated and satisfied in all her dreams. (She doesn't think how not-childish he was, lying over her and pinning her down on the gym mat, how good it felt. She won't.) She can deny him that satisfaction too. She can. She will.

And then he slithers the wrap around her shoulders, and slips hard fingertips against her clavicles, and smooths it over her back down to the limit of public acceptability and no matter how hard she tells herself to _stay still_ she shudders because his touch scorches all the way down. And of course he notices. And smirks.

"Cold, Beckett? Just as well I've got us a car. That'll warm you up." This is not helping. Being in the dark, constricting privacy of the back of a town car with Castle is a bad idea. Much like sparring with him had been. She knows exactly what can be done in the lightless back of a car, with a little imagination and flexibility.

"I'd rather not." She knows it's rude. From the flash of sardonic amusement across his face, Castle has rather too rapidly worked out why.

"If you like. But I'm still escorting you home. I'd never forgive myself if you didn't make it home safely." He grins. "That dress is too small to hide your gun. So's your purse. So you don't have it. Ergo, you can't claim that you do." He's right, and the knowledge that betrays is infuriating. "So I'm escorting you home just like a gentleman should." He doesn't look very gentlemanly at all. More rakish. Wolfish. Predatory. "Shall we go?"

"Yes." It's said in an infinitely discouraging tone. Castle, however, is anything but discouraged. Touching Beckett had been enormously interesting. Her reaction had been extremely enlightening. Detective Beckett might be pretending she doesn't want anything to do with him but he'd been right, she'd been avoiding his touch because she's _pretending_. Mmmm. Time to switch it a little. She'll come to him. Oh yes. Because now he knows she's into him too. Even if she's not admitting it. So now he knows that he'll have her. Soon. It'll be soon, that _she_ comes to _him_. He'll cure this stupid obsession.

* * *

_Thank you to all unlogged in/guest reviewers. I really appreciate knowing everybody's thoughts: please keep letting me know._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Bad girls do it well**

Castle holds the car door for her and doesn't do anything else… troublesome. He takes up far too much space even in a town car but he isn't crowding her. She'd expected him to. He doesn't do anything inappropriate at all. Beckett tells herself that's a good thing and ignores her unwanted, unwarranted disappointment. Letting him touch her was a big mistake. It's all going perfectly well until she realises that by _escorting her home_ Castle meant right to her door. He's doing so with a hand placed over her back which is sending sensual shivers resonating in her veins and, while he's not moving his hand at all, it's still making her think of all the things a big man could do to her, with her, for her. Heat flows through her; liquid fire pooling at her centre.

And now they're at her door, and she's trying to find her keys, and he's far too close for her peace of mind. She locates the keys, unlocks the door, looks up to say thank you politely – she'll keep her manners, no matter how infuriating she finds him – and discovers his arms one on either side of her, not quite touching her. He's leaning down, big, muscular, dangerous; and his expression tells her that he's thinking of all the dark, dirty, sexy things that they might do together. She breathes out a sigh, bites her lip deliberately, gives the same look back, watches him take a quick breath and turns away to go inside – only to find herself turned back.

Castle spins Beckett back to face him, because now he's got a plan. He's not going to be defeated in bedroom matters by a cop ten years younger than he. It's become a competition, and he hates to lose. He'll make her admit she wants him, because he is absolutely not going any further than a goodnight kiss if she doesn't. She's so tempting, lips a little parted, face a little flushed, breathing a little harder, which makes her body shift under the minimal dress in such very enticing ways.

"Not nice, Beckett. We should finish our first date properly." And he leans the last few inches over and kisses her; hot and possessive and _oh _she's immediately wide open to him and brings her hands to his neck and _oh_ she wants this as much as he does and she tastes so good and _oh_ this is what he's been hoping for since he first saw her, since she walked into the restaurant spreading sin and seduction and when he raises his head her eyes are dilated deep dark emerald and she is absolutely into this. _Let's begin, Beckett_.

Or rather, he's going to begin. Detective Beckett began, he realises with considerable annoyance, the very first time they met. Summed him up in seconds, he thinks, and began the game without even telling him. She's currently on the offense: first down and goal for a four-touchdown lead at the end of the second quarter. Time for him to catch up. He should never have waited to kiss her, should never have thought he could let her resist him for this long.

And on that thought he leans in and kisses her for the second time, slowly and seductively and with absolute authority. This time he doesn't pull back, leave her mouth. This time she's already opening to him, already curving into him, before he even touches her lips. But this is a corridor where anyone might see, and the current between them is arcing white-hot, and so he shoves her door open and pushes her through it and closes it with his foot behind them.

It's all hit overdrive, the instant he kissed her. _This_ is why she didn't let him touch her, because she _knew _she'd turn to quicksilver, molten under his hands and mouth, and she'd not refuse him anything at all. He feels so good: hard body and clever fingers, hot lips and ravaging tongue, quick possessive bites on her lower lip mimicking her own tells, taller and so much broader than she, pinning her against her own door with his bulk and dominating her mouth. It's exactly what her body wants, needs, and though she wasn't going to let him, wasn't going to do this, now she's started she isn't going to stop. Even at this early stage she knows if she says _Stop_ he will. That much she's very clear on. She can do this once and then be done. She wants this – not him, absolutely not him, just _this_ - so very badly. So she fights back, duelling with her own mouth and tongue, undoing his shirt, his belt, till he stops her, then pushing against his muscle to see whether he can hold her in place, keep her pressed between the door and his thick hard weight.

"Is this what you want, Beckett?"

"Yes." It's hissed out on a long breathy sigh. "You clean?" He nods. "I'm protected." His mouth is otherwise occupied at her earlobe. His hands are on her thighs and he's sliding his thumbs upward, taking the hem of her dress with them, and when he discovers and exposes the lace hold ups there's nothing left on his face but sheer raw lust. But he doesn't hurry. He strokes very slowly over the lace, under its edge, and smiles darkly, wickedly, promising sin and seduction and sinister delights.

"I think we'll leave these on, Beckett. For now." It's a deep husky rasp which squirms into her viscera, leaches down from her stomach and leaves her hotter, wetter than before, desperate for more. She makes a noise she wishes she hadn't, betraying a loss of control she doesn't want to admit to, and moves against his hand, trying to bring his fingers to where she wants them, because he might be irritating and annoying and a complete pain in the ass, but he is so unbelievably good at this that right now she just doesn't care. She can't even remember why this is not a good idea.

When he skims his fingers up over her quads and stops at the top of the lace, he can barely keep control, so turned on, even though he'd been sure that's what she was wearing, that it's almost painful, wondering what else she's barely wearing. But he needs to keep this slow and controlled and make sure that it's she who's desperate first, so he lets his fingers flirt under the stocking tops until she's rolling into him and trying to force him to touch her elsewhere and emitting sounds that he's sure she doesn't know she's making. And then he takes his hands away and she whimpers – _whimpers!_ – and he pulls the slice of seduction that she'd called a dress off over her head… and steps back and just stares. She's the centrefold for the Seventh Deadly Sin, a succubus in sheer silk. Any control he might have maintained has snapped, and he doesn't regret its loss for a moment. He stops himself for just long enough to run his fingers across her, finds her soaked and flicks over her so she gasps and moans, and then he pushes the thin silk aside and thrusts into her with no ceremony at all, just taking her, making her his, possession and ownership of her mouth and her body and _mine you're all mine Beckett _with each hard slide and it only takes moments before she screams out his name and he groans out hers and both of them have come _hard_.

The first round had happened so fast that all he remembers after the eidetic memory of her out of that dress is the feel of her slim body under his grasping, gripping hands and her shattering around him and pulling him over with her. He'd meant, when he kissed her, simply, _only_, to kiss her goodnight, maybe a couple of times, show her how good he could make her feel and then leave. He'd been perfectly confident, whatever she'd done to him in the restaurant (thank God for long tablecloths and ice water) that that would have been enough for her to realise that she should want him, and that then she'd come to him. He wouldn't have to try any more, any harder, than that, and he'd still be in control of this silent, seductive war.

But then she'd instantly opened under his demands and everything he'd planned had flown out the window at Mach Five. He couldn't have let go of her if he'd been shot. It was probably a very good thing that she'd avoided his touch in the precinct, because he is very certain that interrogation rooms are not sufficiently private for the apparently inevitable result. Just those two kisses, and she'd incinerated all his vaunted control, dissolved all his determination to turn her into the writhing, melting flow of liquid sensation that he'd imagined and dreamed about and written out; while still himself retaining control and firmly in charge of proceedings, destroying deliberately and slowly all Beckett's icy shell.

He'd _intended_ – eventually, not tonight, he'd only meant to kiss her, tonight - to reduce her to a shivering, quivering wreck, clinging to him and begging him and then only capable of formless noise and frantic, desperate motion and finally screaming his name as she came under his fingers and mouth and body, over and over again; showing her his dominance, his mastery of the game.

It hadn't worked like that at all.

He'd never, ever expected to react as he had. He's _Rick Castle_, ruggedly handsome and famously cool; Casanova reputation and page six darling; liked, loved, and in control. He doesn't lose control just because of a smoking hot body. It just _does not happen_. And yet, here it has.

Now he absolutely has to get this back on track. Back to normality: him in control, her desperate. That'll ensure she wants him for longer: as long as he wants her. And he will most certainly enjoy every single touch, and kiss, and stroke, and lick, and thrust; as much as she. That first time has barely scratched the surface of what he wants to do to and with and for her, and by the end of this evening he'll be so deep inside her senses and her body and her mind that she'll be with him for as long as he wants. Which he's already thinking is longer than the single night he'd originally thought would be all that he would want.

She issues directions to her bedroom and he starts to wind her up _properly_: teases as he walks her there, hands roving before, behind, between, above, below; licensed to go anywhere they please; holding her upright when her knees begin to fail. He lays her out across her bed, dark hair and eyes and slashes of midnight lingerie against ivory skin and ivory linens with ivory needlework patterns, high heels and hold-ups still sheathing those stunning legs. She is unbelievably gorgeous, flushed delicately at her cheeks and collarbones, a sultry look that makes him simply want to fall on top of her and take her all over again. _Not this time, Rick_. This time he's going to take it slowly, learn what she likes, teach her what he likes, (Her. He likes her.) find out what suits them both. He leans over and kisses her hard and deep, one hand twisted into the hair at the base of her skull, angling her head so that he can taste every inch of her moist mouth.

He's big and heavy and _oh god_ he is exactly what she likes, better than her dreams: size and heat and muscle; strength where she wants it; a little rough, a lot seductive, and simply the way he's kissing her right now is winding her higher. She pulls him in closer and knows that he's only moving because he wants to; runs a hand down over his back and lower, brings it round to stroke and squeeze him, take the – substantial – measure of the man. He gasps and she smiles darkly into the demanding kiss, takes her mouth away to move round his jaw, feels his hand loosen from the welcome pressure at her neck.

"Like that, Castle?" She nips at his neck, flicks her tongue over the ridge in his ear, whispers wickedly. "Lost for words?" She moves her hand a little, flickers her fingers dirtily, hears his muted groan with dark delight, and does it again. She's surprised when he pulls her away from him, but then he pins her hands above her head with just one of his, and Beckett sinks into the dark, inviting sensations of a strength that can hold her in place, let her forget all her need to be in control, let her float free from the chains of her obligations to the dead and the living. No need to think, no need to talk. Just sensation and reaction and someone else to lead.

"Oh no, Beckett. You don't get that yet. You're not ready." And she's just about to object because she is _so_ ready when he puts his mouth over the black silk covering her breasts and _sucks_ and any words she might have used disappear. And then he does it again, and again, and she dissolves into pure sensation and the feeling of his mouth on her breast and she gives up any concept of fighting it because _fuck_ he is really, really good at this and he's holding her hands above her head in just the way she likes and his other arm is heavy and firm across her waist to stop her from escaping the ravages of his lips and tongue and _oh don't stop_.

"I think you like that, Beckett." _Oh yes_. She likes the feeling of now wet silk sliding over her hard nipples, punctuated by light teasing nips and the scrape of stubble through the delicate fabric, on her sensitive skin above the lace edge. But he's _talking_, too, deep twilight reverberations echoing around her ribs, wicked words that twine between his actions. Just that voice, the sensual predatory purr, the half-growl undertone; just that sable-furred voice could drive her to desperate distraction, to pleading.

And then he lets go of her hands and holds her hips in place as he moves downward and she's panting and writhing even before he reaches her panties.

"Don't you like that? The way you're moving, the way I have to hold you still" – and he takes considerable satisfaction when her hips buck at the words: _ah yes, Beckett, I thought so_ – "If this is how you react when I'm only just getting to know you" – oh, he'll know every inch of her, body and brain and Biblically – "then just imagine how I'm going to make you feel when you've _told_ me what you like." His voice drops still lower, distilled desire sinking through the surface of her skin and seeping down to turn her muscles liquid and pool between her legs. "You'll need to answer_ my_ questions, Beckett. It's _my_ turn to have you" – he pauses and the implications make her squirm – "in interrogation. I think you're a bad, bad girl, Beckett." He runs a finger over the damp silk and her hips twist again. "So tell me, Beckett, do you like it when I touch you like this?"

When she refuses to reply he stops, waits, plays lightly, casually, with the silk vee plunge between her breasts. She'll answer. He knows she wants more of what he's doing. He can see it in her face and her eyes and her wet lips and the soaked fabric over her nipples and between her legs.

After a moment, she speaks, and her voice drains all the blood from his body into one single engorged area. It's the whisper of hot mistral winds rustling through silk hangings, promise and potential of midnight movement and dark liquid desire. "What if I want you to answer _my_ questions? To tell me what _you_ like?" and the satin seduction could waken a corpse. "I could do bad things to you. Don't you want that, Castle?" She runs her tongue lasciviously, moistly, around her lips, pointing her meaning. He sucks in air. "Don't you like that thought, Castle? Don't you want me on my knees in front of you?"

How has she done this? How has she turned the tables on him so fast? He was supposed to be in charge here, and yet for all his brilliance with words, hers are burning through him till he can't see anything but the vision. He has to stop her talking. He doesn't care that it means he's lost control. He just has to stop her talking before he disgraces himself because he can see exactly how she would kneel and imagine how the hot dark cavern of her mouth would burn him and just _fuck_ what has she done to him?

He strikes for her smiling, teasing, wicked mouth and plunders it so she _stops talking_ and hauls her against him and holds her so she squirms and can't escape the hard weight pressing into her and he pulls one long leg up around his waist so she's opened and he can grind into her and _oh_ she's still got her heels on but they feel so good. And once he's imprisoned her so tightly against him it's she who's beginning to lose control and he's regained enough to glide firm fingers over her ass and under the black wisp of silk she's pleased to call panties and he loosens the cage of his arms enough that he can roll her on to her back and slide her panties off and spread her legs and he'd _meant_ to use his lips and fingers to bring her to screaming but she's so wet and he's so hard and he just needs to be inside her all over again and filling her and possessing her in the most intimate primitive way because she's _his_. He'll have time to play with her in other ways later.

He rises up and over her and slams in, no finesse, no gentleness, not his usual care at all – and for the first time in this sweating heated dark night she begs him: _please more just like that_ and scratches sharp nails into his shoulders to pull him closer and then she starts to cry out and both of them break again together.

He rolls off, arm still under her neck, both panting, breathless; curls his hand up on to her shoulder, stroking lightly, side to side, skin to skin. When she tries to move away from him he tightens his hand and stops her shifting over.

"Don't move. I like you there." (_Let go, kitten. I don't like cuddling._)He props himself up on an elbow and looms over her, feeling the bite of the scrapes she's left on his back. Somewhere along the way she's lost the heels. She's still a dark night's wet dream without them. He runs hungry eyes over her tangled hair, smudged eyes, swollen lips; the stubble burn above her bra. He reaches around her back and undoes it as if he has the right, a casually possessive gesture, slips it off to palm each breast, gently soothing over the scrapes, the marks he's made.

If she hadn't been so thoroughly – fucked. The word is _fucked_, Kate – she'd be objecting to this careless assumption of ownership, assuming he's got the right to keep her against him and strip her and touch her again, stroking gently, as if she's a pet. She's no-one's possession, nobody's pet. She doesn't purr for anyone. She's been described as a wildcat, though, more than once, in the days when she still played the game, before… and after, when it became the very occasional, annual, route to oblivion, when nothing else was enough. She tries to twist away from the hypnotic, relaxing strokes; finds she can't; feels a little trickle of new desire run along her skin. Just once, a little softness, a little gentle control, won't hurt. It's only for one night: she shouldn't have done this at all but since she has... She relaxes into the warmth of a big hand, covering the whole of a small breast; the forearm under her neck; the other hand around her shoulder, large fingers tracing delicate small patterns, such a contrast to the rough grip of a few moments ago; the well-developed pectorals at her side; then she stretches lazily, eases down. The slow stroking at breast and shoulder doesn't drop a beat, though there's a slight expansion of that broad chest on an indrawn breath.

Castle's content merely to ensure that Beckett doesn't go any place while they're both coming down from that incredible high. Somewhere in the endorphin waterfall, the idea that he should keep her close for a while has washed down and stuck in his mind. He's not inclined to dislodge it. Uncovering Detective Beckett's darker side, satisfying that and his own desires together, sweeps around his head. He'll enjoy discovering just what she likes, taming this clawing wildcat into sweet surrender in bed. He'll make her purr. Starting now. She'll be his, for as long as he wants her, and he's already decided that it'll be for more than just a night, or even a few.

Buried in the dream-haze of afterglow, he doesn't hear the tiny voice trying to tell him that he doesn't do this; he doesn't think like this; relationships are for other people. He's oblivious to the tip-tap of warnings that he's not in control of this any more – already – that in truth he hasn't been in control of anything about this since Detective _sex in motion _Beckett arrested him at his own book party. He wants her for a lot more than one night, is all he can think, and now that he's taken her one way that she clearly likes, rough and fast and hard, he's going to show her that he's in control by more than just sheer size and strength; that he can use dark seductive words and long flexible fingers and pliant, deliberate mouth gently, inexorably, to wind her higher, bring her to sobbing submission against him. She won't know where he stops and she begins: all she'll know is how squirmingly, frantically, addictively good he'll make her feel. Then she won't leave him. He still doesn't hear the yammering warnings in the back of his brain, soundlessly howling that he hasn't even qualified that statement; that he's forgotten his safety mantra: _till I leave her_.

* * *

_Thank you to guest and unlogged in reviewers, and to all other reviewers, old friends and new. I really appreciate knowing what you think: please keep telling me._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Thinking about my own protection**

And so he begins to explore, stretching the limits of his obsession. The hand on her breast becomes a little less soothing, a little more teasing, moving from one side to the other till her nipples are tight peaks that he can oh-so-gently pinch and roll, watching her reactions flush her skin and dilate her pupils; seeing her lips part, her breathing deepen; twisting the knives of desire into her. When she begins to move, gratifyingly soon, (he can do this. He can. He'll regain control of this night) he slides a heavy thigh across her silky legs to keep her in place and grips her shoulder tighter and brings his mouth to her breasts as his fingers start to drift lower. He can hear her heart thudding, sharp swift staccato beats as her breathing speeds up in matched metronomic pants; turning harsher, gasping; the soft undertones of renewed arousal beginning to thread through the weave of the fabric he's wrapping her in, silk shackles to tie her to him. He lets his hand move lower again, feels her try to shift under his leg, restricted, restrained; and when he glides gentle fingertips down through soft folds and finds her open and wet and ready she mews and whimpers and_ oh _this is what he wants: Beckett soft and open and compliant and purring and wholly receptive to everything he's doing; wholly under his sexual spell: wholly _his._

Beckett stopped thinking, stopped caring, some time ago: soothed, sated, slightly sleepy; content, for once, to be cuddled and cosseted; simply to receive the soft strokes. By the time she registers, through her post-sex haze, that Castle's changed the game, she's enjoying it too much to worry that this isn't the hard, hot sex that feels so _good_ but won't mean anything; this is a slow, deliberate, controlled seduction crafted to ensure she loses all control; left at the mercy of wicked hands and hot mouth and his desire: she shouldn't give in like this but it's just so good and she wants so badly just to yield and let him take complete charge; define her actions and reactions in all the ways she saw and felt and heard in her hot, edgy, arousing dreams. He can do it for her, and she's already forgotten why - if she ever had a good reason – she wasn't going to let him.

And once again he's starting to talk; midnight whispers to trap her mind.

"What do you like, Beckett? Shall I tell you what I think you like?" His fingers dance against her. "You like it rough, don't you? You like it hard and fast and pinning you to soaked sheets so you scream." He slips his fingers just inside and she tries to push further. "But that's not all, is it? You like your hands… held, don't you?" A little deeper. "Maybe more than just held. Maybe more than just your hands." How'd he know that? And she thinks of what that might mean and writhes a little. A little deeper still. "Oh yes, Beckett, I know what you like. But now we're going to try something I like. Do you know what I like? I like it when you scream my name." She gasps frantically for breath. His fingers are sliding and curving and hitting just the right spot and _oh oh oh_ he brings her up to the edge again and stops. And does it again. And again. And then she can't help screaming his name and then he lets her shatter.

When the world comes back into focus Castle's watching her carefully, assessingly. It's slightly unnerving. But when he realises she's noticed his look it's swiftly hidden under a very masculine expression of satisfaction. "You liked that," he says smugly. "I liked that, too." He reaches for her and tugs her across his chest, holding her tucked in between his shoulder and chin. The gesture doesn't entirely match his words and behaviour. Sure, it's still wholly possessive, but there's an oddly protective undertone. Oh no. No, no. That's just a mistaken impression, fuelled by afterglow. That's got to be wrong. This is a one-time deal, she knows that. In which case, time for some payback.

She brings her hand across to scrape sharp nails over his nipple and senses the change in mood instantly. When he doesn't try to stop her she pinches, sharply, accepts the indrawn breath as only her due, glides a small hand southwards and simultaneously nips hard over his collarbone, laves with her tongue, swirls it round, feels the sudden tension in his jaw. As her fingers skirt him to stroke the hard muscle in his thigh he gasps, his ribcage moving under her. She'll undo him, now, just like he undid her. Turnabout is fair play, and now she'll make him beg. She wraps her fingers round him and slides over satiny skin, and when she's satisfied with the results of that; listening to him groan deeply, she slips out his grasp and trails kisses downward.

He knew what she was going to do. He just didn't anticipate it being like this. She's so hot and so _dirty_ and _fuck_ she can't do that to him except she does and _no_ she's not going to shatter him like this because he will have to leave soon and he has to be inside her one more time and _fuck_ again she just cannot _do _that to him so he pulls her away and pushes her on to her back and pins her hands above her head (because he knows how much she liked it) and starts to talk (because she likes that too and he likes knowing that simply talking dirty to her soaks her through and in her car that'll be a good game to play) and rests over her just like in the gym.

"Do you like it like this? Was this what you were imagining in the gym, when you were on your back underneath me?"

She arches against him and rubs where he's pressed to her. "Ye-ess." It's dragged out of her on a gasp.

"Did you want me to do this?" He slides a little way inside and stops, watching her through the haze of his own desire. She's so wet and open, so much more than he'd imagined when he wrote his feverish fantasies of Nikki Heat. She pushes against him to try to take him deeper.

"Want more?" Her nails pierce his hands at the taunting tone and he jerks in reaction and slips further in. "You do. Say you want it, Beckett. Say you want me." She has to say it. He needs her to say it even though her actions are telling him how much she wants him. She has to say it because that way he can tell himself and almost believe that he's still getting what he wants, still in control. She tries to move herself, but the way he's pressing her down with his bulk means that she can't get what she wants without giving him what he wants. He senses the instant when she gives up her own control again and lets him have the lead.

"Castle," and it's almost a moan. "I want this." And he pushes fully into her tight, hot body because he can't wait any more now she's asked for it, and doesn't notice in the hot blaze of completion that she hasn't said she wants _him_.

He doesn't want to go. He wants to hold on to Beckett, keep her within his grip, make sure she doesn't acquire any idea of leaving him. But he needs to go, needs to be at home, and anyway there's always tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. He's shown her why she should be his, and judging by the way they'd both behaved, she isn't objecting. He's got what he wanted, and now he's going to keep it.

* * *

He doesn't know what he'd expected when he turns up at the precinct the next morning, but the usual irritation wasn't it. It's as if last night never happened, or meant nothing; as if she'd never moaned and begged and screamed for him; never made him rasp and groan for her. Her gaze flicks across him and reveals nothing at all except annoyance that he's back. That's not how this is supposed to go. She's supposed to want him, like she did yesterday, wild for him to do more, give her more, take her higher. Because he certainly hasn't finished with her. He's not ready for an ending; hasn't in any way had his fill; hasn't uncovered the other actions she likes, the games she might want to play. She's no vanilla innocent, and there were certain indications last night that there may, in due time, be more uses for service handcuffs than merely arresting criminals. For her, though he thinks she likes him in control, he might even give up having control. It – she – was that good. He realises with a thud of disbelief that he hasn't cured his obsession at all. In fact, he just might have fed it. _But it's okay_, he tells himself, he's had these obsessions before and come through. It won't last. Maybe a rather more extended affair than previously, but it still won't last for very long. Just as long as he wants it to.

Except Beckett isn't giving him the slightest indication that she wants to do it again. Not one. She's back to the thick layer of ice and reserve, over the spiky, tense, angry core; no hint of the clawing wildcat or the purring kitten he'd held curled against him and petted.

"No body's dropped, Castle. I didn't call you. Why are you here?" That's hardly encouraging. Thin cold fear – of failure? - slips through him. She's supposed to want him. (_Bye, Ricky. It's over._) He'd made her scream for him. She's supposed to be his, now, for as long as he wants.

"I wanna see you tonight." She looks at him coolly, and shakes her head.

"I don't think so." It's implacable.

"What?" he ejaculates, rather too loudly for discretion. Fortunately there's no-one nearby in the bullpen. "But…"

"Scratched an itch, Castle. That's all." The sheer vulgarity contrasted with the quiet statement and cold, educated voice slams into him. It's wholly uncharacteristic: even when she banters in the bullpen she doesn't display crudity like that. She's looking at him slightly oddly, eyes shrouded and completely wrapped in unreadable reserve. Even her voice doesn't give anything away. "C'mon. We both know that's all it was. One-night stand, get it out the system. 'S what you wanted. Didn't mean anything." She's already turned away, back to her desk and the pile of paperwork. No. No no _no no!_ It's not what he wanted. This is _not_ how this goes. She doesn't get to use him for one night and then walk away. He's not finished with her. It's the best sex he's ever had in his life and he is not letting her push him away without a fight. She can't just write it off as if her reactions to him were nothing. It's not nothing. He can't believe it meant nothing to her. It didn't mean nothing to him. It crashes over him that it wasn't just sex, wasn't just her body. He does want her body, and also her mind, and her passion for justice, and more. And she doesn't know it and she probably won't believe it and anyway she doesn't care. She only wanted to _scratch an itch_.

He's had exactly what he initially thought he wanted and now he's found that it isn't what he actually wanted at all. He's not cured his obsession in the slightest, and he still hasn't managed to capture Beckett.

Beckett is congratulating herself on her perfect concealment of every last iota of her feelings. She won't admit, to herself or anyone else, that last night meant anything at all to her. It was a one-off mistake, and maybe now he'll stop following her around and stripping her naked with those bad-boy bedroom eyes. If she just ignores it, it – and he – will soon go away. Good.

It was nice but now it's done, and she can't afford to get involved, especially with someone she doesn't even like. She's perfectly well aware that he was only chasing so hard because she wouldn't give in, so since she had conceded, there's no point expecting it to carry on. And she's angry that she did give in. She hadn't been intending to. She hates him more for the searing touch and blazing kisses and her own weakness in surrendering to what her body wanted. It would only end soon. Even if the sex was exactly what she wanted. Wants. It was a lot better than _nice_. It was spectacular. But it was a one-time deal. She shouldn't have done it at all. That's not who she is now. She doesn't dabble in the dark side any more.

Anyway, if she doesn't do it again he'll soon stop interfering in her well-organised world. Rich playboys who get everything they want, any time they want it, are not an improvement to the precinct, nor are they a welcome addition to her life. She concentrates on her paperwork and hiding her thoughts behind a perfect poker face, and consequently misses Castle's utterly shocked, raw expression at her words.

Castle goes to the break room to collect himself and absent-mindedly gets a coffee from the machine. He realises his mistake as soon as he tastes it. It is, still, possibly the single most horrible drink that has ever passed his lips, including some unidentified mixtures at college which could quite possibly have contained hemlock and anti-freeze in equal quantities were it not that he still seems to be alive. (He must be alive. You don't get this hurt when you're dead.) He doesn't understand how any of the detectives can drink this stuff, and pondering this trivia at least partially takes his mind off the twisting pain in his chest, every time he re-hears Beckett's words, which right now are on a continuous repeat loop.

He dumps the liquid – it's not coffee; maybe it's brake fluid – down the sink and trudges out, waves a generic goodbye and trudges home. No-one notices he's gone, no-one notices that he's home. He shuts himself in his study and mopes, once again the little lost new boy who's got no friends. (_Mommy, do we have to move again?_) Except this time it's worse, because he thought he'd got something better than friends. But still. There's always Ryan and Esposito: he's getting along well with them, even if they don't always appreciate his suggestions at least they're always honest with him.

But he wants Beckett. Detective _I-was-just-scratching-an-itch_ Beckett. Like hell she was. He doesn't believe that for a moment. There has to be a way to make her admit that. He'll get back to being in control of this game. He's not finished with Detective Beckett yet. She'll be his, for just as long as he likes. Following her around just isn't enough. He tries to call her, gets only voicemail, waits a while, tries again, waits a little longer, tries a third time; when it's still not answered, gives up, unconsoled. Deep in the darkest corners of his mind, obsession stretches its talons a little further out, and starts to gather in all the facts and impressions and oddities that he's noticed about Detective Beckett. He'd thought he didn't care about them, didn't need to explore her depths. But the back of his brain has other, more dangerous, ideas; wriggling maggot-like, hidden beneath the surface.

Why should he care, anyway? Why can't he just let her go, reduce it to a one-night stand that need not be repeated and doesn't matter? Surely she's just another woman? He's been with hot women before: not for a while, though he's squired enough around the town to maintain the image, but still… Why should it matter? Because, he thinks slowly, because she's trying to leave him. He doesn't like being left. He does the leaving. He's in control of his life. He won't be abandoned. No-one abandons him, leaves him. Not now. Not any more. (_Bye, Ricky. Bye, Rick._) Being left scares him; reminds him of the days he's left behind, his failures (his marriages: even though he left them, they're still failures; but he doesn't think about that); makes him think that he's not the star-spangled success the world believes him to be; not the confident Rick Castle that everybody loves. And if he's not that Rick Castle, then is he anything? If people don't like him, love him, give him what he wants – who is he? Because everybody loves the man they think he is.

Everybody except the team at the Twelfth. They don't care about who his publicist says he is, who page six says he is, who his sales events say he is. If he tried to use that on them, they'd laugh him out of town. Maybe, just maybe, with them he can find out if there's more to him than playboy Rick Castle, once he's beyond his own front door.

But introspection shifts to anger. She's _not _going to leave him. Nobody leaves him. He's _Rick Castle_ and nobody leaves his parties till he wants them to.

And he knows just how to make sure she doesn't. Because the more he thinks about hot Detective Beckett (and surely he should learn her given name if he's spent the night with her?) all last night and cold Detective Beckett all this morning and the complete disconnect between the two; the more he knows she's hiding something from him. Or from herself. He's found one key to the multiple locks on her personality and private life. Now to find some more. He considers Beckett, draws the picture of her sitting at her pristine, precinct desk with the skilled precision of a miniaturist: screen, phone, pile of paperwork – ah. Stack of paper cups. Beckett mainlines that pisspoor excuse for coffee that the precinct machine provides. He can solve that, and an extremely pleasant by-product will be that he'll have something decent to drink as well. Key two, meet Lock B. Open Sesame. And preferably, hopefully, open Beckett. Yes. Timeout over. Game on, again. He's forgotten all his earlier misery and introspection now that he's got a plan. He doesn't need to try to see her again tonight. (though that doesn't mean he wouldn't like to) He'll let her stew. Let her remember what he did to her. Remember how much she'd liked it. She'll come running back, when he wants her. All he'll need to do is touch her. He'll just research coffee machines, and then write. Ideas for Nikki Heat are sparking in his mind. Publishable… and not. He opens his laptop and begins.

* * *

In her own apartment, Beckett is considering her phone. Three missed calls, all from the same number. Castle's. What's that all about? He'd wanted, and got, a one-night stand. He's not in it for the long haul, and she's not up for being a short, meaningless fling. She shouldn't have let him kiss her; she doesn't do one-night stands, delicious edge of danger wrapping round her or not. No voicemails or texts, though. Whatever it was he wanted, no doubt some question on precinct procedure, it wasn't important enough to leave a message. He can ask tomorrow. If he bothers showing up. She's not sure why he bothered today: it was only paperwork and now he's had what he wants she's sure he'll only turn up on live cases. She can go right back to her nice, peaceable, controlled, civilised life. _Your boring, single, lonely life_, says Lanie's sharp New York twang in her mind. Lanie would love this story, if she ever knew it. Lanie spends all her time telling Beckett to get a life. Lanie's spent the last three and a half weeks telling Beckett to have some fun with Castle, as a way of getting a life. Lanie, in fact, has been almost as much of a pain in the ass as Castle, and her ostensibly rather purer motives are not improving Beckett's view of her advice.

She stretches, slowly, feeling the twinges of last night's… activities… still present. A hot bath will cure that; some wine will relax her, and a quiet night with a good book will return her to normal. No more frantic, fabulous sex, no chance of indulging her darker desires with bad boys. With one very particular, very talented, bad boy. She really ought to have grown out of that by now. And yet… it had been so _good_. She starts to draw her bath and tries not to think about the midnight memory of his touch; the way he'd taken charge; the edge of danger, of all the forbidden actions that might now be possible. It doesn't work, and alone in her bath, sipping her wine, she can still feel the delicious friction of that scruffy, sexy stubble against her skin; the way he'd touched her, perfectly pushing all her buttons; the feel of him inside her. She slips down further into the hot water and allows the memory to envelop her. Much later, despite the wine and the book, her dreams blaze, and her morning shower is necessarily cool. It irritates her immensely.

* * *

_Please don't shoot me..._

_Thank you to all guest/unlogged in reviewers. All logged in reviews are answered. I really appreciate all your thoughts. Please keep telling me what you think._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: What's the story**

Castle, having been thoroughly distracted by an idea for his next chapter and consequently having written for half the night, is not wholly focused the next day. In fact, he's gone to the precinct because he feels comfortable there. He's not supposed to be there. He's _supposed_ to be available, because his book's gone on general release today, but he's scared. Scared of the critics, scared what they'll say, scared that with every book he puts a little of himself out there and what if the public sees through him, sees through the public personality that everyone loves, what if the critics crack his shell like a lobster and pull out the insecurity within? (_You're not my friend, Ricky Rodgers. I don't like you._) What if they don't like him any more? What then? But already, being at the precinct gives him something that isn't connected to his books, or the public personality, and, though he doesn't let himself know it, he finds it very reassuring. When he screwed up, he was raked down for it – but that was the end of it. It's never been referred to again. Not like his supposed playboy reputation and his failed marriages, dragged up and smeared across the tabloids every time he turns around.

Inspiration had struck before he'd done much about coffee, and he'd forgotten his plans until he makes the mistake of drinking some more of it. While he's still making faces into the cup and describing the awfulness of the taste, Detective _suddenly-far-too-perceptive_ Beckett pulls the same trick on him that he had on her and tells him exactly why he's sitting there, displaying a substantial degree of more than slightly malicious pleasure at the insight. He tries to cover up, but he doesn't think that it works. And then her phone rings and they've got a case and – well, just phew. He doesn't like her digging into his feelings. She might find out that he isn't… something._ That's articulate, Rick. Thought you were a writer?_ He tries to shove that thought away. He's enough for her. He has to be enough to keep her for as long as he wants her. And he'd been plenty enough for her the other night. He thinks idly that it's time to repeat that, and then a great deal less idly about how to achieve it. Starting with coffee.

While he's in the car, instead of annoying Beckett by playing with all the tempting controls, he researches coffee machines instead, and when they've finished the day's work (it's clear that Beckett despises politics, and he's deeply relieved – though he doesn't admit that to himself, either – to find that it's not just he whom she instantly detests) he starts to make some calls. He knows what's required – it'll need to be hard-wearing, though, because the precinct as a whole mainlines coffee. Beckett, in fact, is just the most extreme example of the species. It's another facet of her overdriven personality, he thinks. Obsessed with murder, with justice, addicted to coffee. She doesn't seem to have a speed between dead stop and full on; no rheostat to dial it back. She'd been the same in bed. Maybe that's why, he muses, she wants someone else in control. So that said other someone – he – can slow her down, defuse the primed bomb of Beckett's obsessions and anger, keep her from exploding. Maybe she can't do that for herself. He could. Oh yes. So many ways to keep her on the edge, to defer gratification.

He steers away from that intensely erotic thought. For now. Her car is not the place to start his campaign. He remembers with slight annoyance that she's already snapped at him that the only reason she didn't kill him already for messing with the radio is because it would be recorded. He thinks even more irritatedly that if that includes sound then he'd better forget any plan of talking dirty in the car. Being arrested isn't in the game plan. It's not he whom he wants to see in handcuffs. He cuts off that line of thought pretty fast, too. But he makes a little mental memo to investigate the recording specs of NYPD unmarked cars and cruisers. He'll need it, sometime, so it's only research.

He goes back to coffee machine specifications. And if he's thinking that providing them with good coffee will wheedle him into everyone's – Beckett's – affections faster, just like candy, and later illicit beer, used to do at each new school, at least those times when there was money for luxuries, well, he isn't letting that piece of forgotten history hit his conscious mind. (_Wanna be my friend? I got candy._) It's just that he's sick of bad coffee. He's Rick Castle, and he doesn't have to put up with anything he doesn't like. And since he has no intention of walking away from this new, interesting occupation of catching killers and being at the precinct, or this new, interesting occupation of actually chasing a woman, he'll simply ensure that the coffee matches his requirements. There's no question that the woman does.

He finds a suitable machine and the minute he manages to get away from Beckett by pleading a restroom break (she rolls her eyes and tells him that cop work requires bladder control – it's the first time she's snarked at him like she does with the boys, and he doesn't think she even noticed) he applies pleasant but authoritative words and not a small amount of money and arranges for the machine, and a tech to fit it, to arrive at the Twelfth on Monday, as early as possible.

* * *

Never mind half the bullpen, half the precinct's come to sample the wares from the new machine. Beckett is appalled by the noise and chaos and disruption that her annoying writer causes – hold on. _Her_ annoying writer? He's not hers. Not at all. Just like she's not his Detective. She's got nothing to do with him. It wasn't her idea to have him here and life would just be so much easier if he left. He's almost entirely devoid of redeeming features. _You just keep tellin' yourself that, girl_, says Lanie's irritating voice in her head._ Maybe you'll even convince yourself._

She's not going to be bribed with coffee, even if Ryan and Esposito are already bought. She defiantly continues with the revolting – but caffeinated – liquid that she's used to, and resolutely ignores Castle's knowing smirk. She can't imagine why he's still showing up. She'd have thought he'd be bored by now. He's seen her naked, so why's he still looking her over with his intent, undressing gaze? He's a playboy, and he had his fun, and she really wishes that he would stop looking at her with eyes that say _let's do it again_. _Now._ Because each time she sees that look, her good resolutions take another hit and the memories send heat down her spine and liquid to her core and she remembers very clearly how she used to be a bad, bad girl, running with the bad, bad boys.

Then, suddenly, in the quiet of the late evening empty bullpen, staring at her desk and the murder board and thinking about the case, she remembers that odd, unnerving look, and the strange hint of protectiveness, and that he'd made it clear he wanted to see her again. And he's still making that clear, and it (he) had been so very, very good. That's one redeeming feature. The boys like him, and they're not easy to impress; used to sussing out lies, evasions and insincerity. In fact, they seem to approve of him, and it's not just the bribe of good coffee. Two redeeming features. (can't count one for each of Ryan and Espo, they come as a pair) Montgomery likes him. That's… very interesting. She respects Montgomery's judgement of people more than anyone else in her life; even more than her own. Montgomery doesn't give respect easily, and when he does it's always justified. Hmm. _That_ implies that, smug irritatingness aside, there might be a character lurking behind the playboy. And if there's character, then just possibly she might be able to trust him. A third redeeming feature. She tries not to let the claws of her desire, which have only been sharpened by that hot, dark night, make her decision for her.

Finally, as important as the rest, Lanie might be right. She's not had any fun – the dinner and subsequent events aside – for a long time. She knows she's too serious, never putting the job aside, no longer able to switch off. When she isn't dreaming those hot, edgy dreams, now, she sees their faces – not the victims, but the grieving families and friends. It's a bad sign, the first step towards burnout. She needs to deal with that: needs to find a way to bring herself back, step away from the case at the end of the day. But. But she doesn't do casual. If she goes in for this, then the inevitable ending _will_ hurt, however irritating he is, however much she tells herself it's just physical relief. She doesn't see an answer to that.

She's alone, and there's no-one to see if she succumbs to the temptation of strong, hot coffee. Maybe caffeine will help her think: help her find a way through. Because she wants him. Really wants him. But she can't stand the idea that he'd still be following her round for _research_ after it all falls apart. Keeping your feelings under wraps is fine if the cause of those feelings isn't there. It's a bit more tricky if it's right by your desk. He annoys her enough without adding hurt to the mix. But. But she knows what she likes and he was _exactly_ what she likes. And if she can trust him – and she trusts the judgement of Espo, and Montgomery, and Ryan – then she'll be able to go further down the route of what she likes. She's pretty sure that he'd like it too.

She checks surreptitiously around her and, satisfied that no-one will see her concession, takes a cup from the break room and rapidly presses the correct combination of buttons. Just the enticing aroma, redolent of twilight evenings in small booths and intimate circumstances, starts to clear her mind. Maybe… maybe it could work. Okay, it's never going to be some long-term affair, but if the boys and Montgomery and Lanie all think that there's something more than just the spoilt rich playboy then it's not likely to turn nasty: not in the way that Sorenson had. It's not like there's a clash of careers here. As long as he leaves her past alone, stays in the present, it'll be fine.

She's lost in her reverie, standing over the filling cup, when an unexpected voice startles her and the coffee spills and she only just avoids a nasty scald. It is, of course, Castle. He's had an idea. At nearly ten o'clock, he's had an idea and he's come to the precinct because – of course – he thinks he'll find her here. And, worse, he's right. Okay. That is _it_. That is absolutely _enough_. If even some short-stay irritating far-too-sexy Writer-Boy can work out that she spends her entire life in the precinct and never really goes home it's time to do something about it. She can't afford to burn out. Homicide is her life, but she has to be able to do the job.

She knows she's close to letting her body make her decision, not her mind, and suddenly she doesn't care. It's been so long, and she wants this so much. Not him. This. If she gets hurt, she gets hurt. (she ignores that she will. She can try, but she knows she won't be casual. She doesn't remember how.)

First, though – the idea. The dead demand so much more than the living. She tamps down the hot thrill of desire, fired not by her dreams, now, but by memory, reality; and starts to work with this idea of Castle's. It's very plausible. She challenges and questions and tries to tear it down, but the more they argue about it the more it fits the evidence. An hour flashes past, and at the end of it she has a list of matters to start the boys on in the morning. She realises, rather unexpectedly, that this has been fun, as well as useful. She'd thought he might be intelligent, back at the beginning. Now she's sure of it. He might even be as clever as she. She likes matching wits; the cut and thrust (oh Kate, what a choice of language) of debate; sketching out a theory and then building the structure on evidence. His insane theories spark her thinking: her thinking fires him to tell the story – and somehow, it all arc-welds together into one coherent complete solution. And then there's the other solution, body and brains, beautifully wrapped in that bad-boy, dangerous package, sending midnight thrills down her spine.

Castle also has some thoughts of his own. He'd had his brilliant inspiration – with a little help from his daughter – and the idea that he should find Beckett and tell her about it, make her _see_ his usefulness, had arrived only seconds behind. Key three, in fact, meeting Lock C. Being her obsession with murder. Solving homicides, to be precise. And then there's the _other_ reason for coming. He's already decided he doesn't like her trying to leave him. It's not what he wants. And now he's _almost_ sure it's not what she wants.

He'd been sure she'd be at the precinct. A little light conversation with Ryan, who's slightly more naive and much less close-mouthed than Esposito, has given him what has now proven to be the perfectly correct idea that Beckett basically lives at the precinct. Apparently she goes home to shower, to change, and to sleep. Most of the time, anyway. It's time she went home for something else, too. Something a little more… sociable.

An...nd – she's utilising his coffee machine. _Ha_. So much for her principled refusal of its wares earlier. He watches silently from the dark shadows around the bullpen, running over his plan. Offer up an idea, discuss it for a while, appreciate that razor-sharp mind. Then it'll be late. Escort her home – and kiss her goodnight, with that edge of bad-boy dominance that she'd liked so much. Appreciate certain other of her assets. Let's see where that takes them. He thinks it's only too likely to take them back to her bed.

But if it doesn't then he'll… well. He won't force her to acknowledge her attraction. He's not that man. He's seen those men. Casting couches and backstage "favours" and insincere flattery and using power to get what they want. Whether or not the recipient wants it. (_You want the role? Better be nice to me._) He's seen the tears, after, through the night. He will never, _ever_ be one of those men. He might always get what he wants, but the other person has always, always wanted it too. Always.

But he might… woo her. See if that works. It would be… interesting. Not boring. It's peculiar. He thought, no more than three days ago, that _trying_ was an unfair imposition on him. Now he thinks it might be a great deal more interesting – and fun – than it being easy. And even if they do fall back into bed tonight – which is absolutely the most desirable outcome – then he wants to know more about her bedroom likes and dislikes. Which will definitely take effort. And time. Lots of time. With her. And discovering Beckett – in bed – will be very interesting. Fascinating. It occurs to him that the last month or so might just have taught him that things that take effort – like solving murders – are quite often _interesting_; even if the work along the way might be boring. In fact – hmm – he hasn't been bored since he began here. He'd come here to catch Detective Beckett, and alongside that he's found that he likes catching killers, too.

But thinking of bed, if they get there – always assuming that she doesn't shoot him now, though he hopes that she won't – this time he'll make absolutely certain that there's no more trying to leave him. He'll make sure he gives her anything she wants, any way she wants it. Happily, that seems very likely to coincide precisely with the way he wants it. He likes control, and he thinks she likes giving up control. How very convenient, he thinks, he'll get just what he wants, because that's what she'll want. He always gets what he wants, in the end.

He speaks. And has to suppress first a smile at how she startles and then the desire to make sure she isn't hurt, because he's sure that she won't welcome concern from him. Not that that's uppermost in his mind. Oh no. Concern is a long way from his primary emotion, right now. Smug satisfaction that she's sneakily using _his_ coffee machine, oh yes. Desire, definitely. Concern – not required. He carefully ignores the way in which he'd held her in, needed to bring her into him, after he'd made her scream and shatter; ignores his fascination with her pain and off-key reactions and the increasing need to find out why. He wants her. That's what, that's all, he wants. Her story doesn't matter. It really doesn't.

And then he forgets everything apart from arguing out the evidence and the theories and stretching his own mind to keep up with Beckett. Boy, does he have to stretch. She really is as intelligent as he is. No-one's made his mind work this hard for a long time. No-one's made other things this hard for a long time, either. Exchanging theories with Beckett is nearly as good as sex with Beckett, and much more publicly acceptable. He flicks a glance at his watch and realises that over an hour has passed without him noticing, but now they're done for the night. Well, _this_ is done.

"It's late, Beckett. Time to go home."

She looks slightly uncertain, as if she isn't sure she's finished work, as if there's more she should be looking for, running down, searching out: just doing more.

"C'mon. I'll take you home." That fetched her, though not in the way he'd hoped. The spark and sparkle of moments ago is replaced by irritation.

Despite her decisions about _getting a life_, Beckett is not impressed at all by Castle telling her he'll take her home. If he'd _asked_, now, she might not have been at all averse to the idea. But she won't be told, as if she's a child, or weak, or a putative victim. She's a cop, and she can protect herself.

"Not required." The implication is _and not wanted._

"Don't care, I'm going to." He's taking a chance, forcing just a little. He shrugs off his usual variety of seductive, hint-of-twilight charm and lets the edge of danger slip out in a harder tone, intending to play on her reactions to him taking charge in bed. "I'm not taking no for an answer, Beckett." She looks at him with disbelief, anger, and no desire at all.

"I'm the cop, not you. I have a gun. You don't." He slowly raises one wolfish eyebrow and she blushes fiercely, but continues. "I'm perfectly able to defend myself. I do this all the time. I don't need your help. The answer is _no_."

Castle abruptly realises how she's thinking. Ah. This is not his private novel, and this is not his toy Detective Heat. Possibly accidentally impugning Beckett's ability to take care of herself was not the best way to introduce the subject of escorting her home. It hadn't exactly been easy to win, when sparring, and he's really a lot bigger than she is. And, of course, she hadn't had her gun with her. Fortunately. He backtracks, rapidly.

"Okay, I didn't mean that the way it came out. My dear Detective Beckett," he says in a smooth, inviting tone, sweeping her a rakish, theatrical bow, "may I please have the pleasure and protection of your company on my way home?" Beckett looks extremely dubiously at him, rolls her eyes, but appears to have lost the worst of her annoyance.

If he'd started with that line, she'd have been a lot happier. Still, he seems to have realised his mistake. She smooths her hackles back down. Marginally. She's rapidly revising her previous plans for the rest of the evening. She's not sure that this will be a good idea any more. "No," she says, very firmly, with an edge of _you have got to be joking_. If he's going to try the other approach, this will rapidly become nasty, brutish and short. Very short. Non-existent, in fact. She's not looking for a protector, in any sense of the word. It's about getting a life, taking down time from the dead, not burning out. No need for anything else. Maybe if there's nothing else she won't get hurt. Maybe she'll just go home and think this over on her own, out of this suddenly intense atmosphere, where desire is starting to bleed through her veins and into her mind, pushing against her annoyance and her sense.

It's not acceptance, and Castle's hopes sink. Along with other areas. He realises that he needs to take a little – actually, quite a lot - more care. Detective _I have a gun and I'm not afraid to use it_ Beckett is not in need of the usual brand of flirtatious courtesy and consequent implications that (he preens) a large, strong, handsome male presence at her side is a useful form of protection. Whatever she might like in bed. Umm. He likes being very obviously an – the – alpha male, showing off his ability to attract and take care of the most beautiful women, to be the life and soul of the party, to have important people wanting to be friends. (The word _peacocking_ flits through his mind and is not allowed to remain there. He's the leader of the pack, just like he wanted to be. Just like he wasn't, as the permanent new boy. He'll never be treated as if he's nothing again.)

When he looks up from his thoughts she's gone. She didn't even bother to bid him farewell. All that theorising, the swift give and take of suggestion and challenge, all the usefulness he's just displayed, all the connection between them – and she walked off without even saying goodnight. Walked out on him. He's infuriated, all over again. He didn't even get the chance to try to change her mind.

He goes home, seething, and is not at all comforted by his suspicion that she left so she wouldn't be tempted. She ought to be tempted. More than tempted. What does he have to do to have her again?

* * *

_A small clarification. In this fic, Beckett has not, as yet, told Castle her first name. This is deliberately different from the show._

_Thank you to all reviewers. I really like knowing what you all think._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Don't you want me?**

Not for the first time, none-too-suppressed sexual frustration has left Castle edgy, angry and unsatisfied. He'd been so sure he'd get what he wanted. And then he remembers that he's got a reading tomorrow evening, and then remembers that she's a fan (he's sure of it) and decides, still so very hurt and angry, on some reverse psychology. He'll specifically tell her she's not welcome. Given how downright contrary she is, that should work perfectly. And he'll enjoy seeing her face when he doesn't invite her, too. She's hurt him (but she shouldn't have been able to) and now he'll turn the tables. She'll know how it feels to be left behind, alone. Serve her right, he thinks nastily and childishly, as he falls into sleep. Serve her right.

The next day, he's some way calmer and not a little ashamed of himself. He's never been deliberately, calculatedly nasty in the way he was considering and he is not going to start now. He's a better man than that. Equally pertinently, if he acts as he had intended it will backfire, badly. Beckett's pride might very well prevent her turning up somewhere she thinks she's clearly unwanted. (Though he wants her there, to show her how good a writer he is, how many fans he has. Back to trying to show her that everyone wants him, and so should she.) She isn't turning up where she's clearly wanted, either, which is in his bed. He thinks, Machiavelli-like, that he needs to refine his thinking, and planning, more than a little. Ah, that's it. Let her know that the reading's happening, subtly; imply that she wouldn't be interested; make it clear that he doesn't expect her to turn up. Time for some acting. Hide the anger, hide the frustration, hide the hurt; bring out don't-care playboy Rick Castle. If nothing else, it'll irritate the hell out of her, and at least then she'll be paying him some attention. But when he next has her – and he _will, _he's determined upon it – there will be consequences. No-one abandons him, leaves him standing on his own.

* * *

Beckett's still carrying a whole new level of irritation with Castle when she hits the precinct in the morning. Her dreams had left her unfulfilled and unrefreshed, and she'd not been inclined to resort to self-help just to deal with the fall-out from a night she shouldn't have indulged in. It's the same as it used to be. Give up control, give in, in bed, and suddenly you're some pathetic little woman in need of protection in all the rest of your life. _The hell with that_, she thinks bitterly, disappointment fuelling anger. Said anger is not at all assuaged by the memory, or by her unsatisfying dreams, or by the atrocious precinct coffee that she's martyring herself by drinking because there is _no way_ that she'll allow him the slightest hint that anything at all about him is in any degree acceptable or likeable. Regardless of how her body reacted to him, regardless of the mental connection the other night, regardless of how hot and wet and frustrated and angry he makes her. It's all reverted to the initial poisonous cocktail of raw desire, only barely covered by sheer dislike.

Deep inside, her own desires and needs delicately draw down claws in her lower body, clenching her muscles and twisting her nerves. She's fighting her own wants, as much as she's fighting Castle's unconcealed heat. She'd been a bad girl, once, in that other country of the past; mixing it with the bad boys who hadn't thought she needed any protection or control in any way at all, outside a bedroom. If she didn't need it then, she surely doesn't need it now: NYPD cop, trained in self-defence, gun on her hip. She doesn't need anyone to _take care_ – her mouth twists unpleasantly – of her. She doesn't want it, either. It's just a form of control that she doesn't need and won't accept.

She diverts all her rage and frustration, fuelled by the caffeine in the appalling coffee, to the case. That way she's firmly in control of every aspect of her life. It's just as well she hadn't acted on her carnal impulses last night. It would only have compounded the original mistake.

Unseen and unacknowledged, a thought entwines itself parasitically around the repressed desire that she's consciously locking away: that ten years of not allowing anyone to take care of her in any way has led her to a point where she's at her desk every Saturday night, on duty every holiday, and almost entirely devoid of friends and life.

* * *

Case closed, wife arrested; wannabe politician and actual murderer off the streets (two birds, one stone, Beckett thinks); even if she does have to give Writer-Boy some credit, that result makes it a good day. Until she hears Castle inviting the boys to some reading of the final episode of Storm that he's giving tonight. He doesn't ask her, she notices, and ignores the small pang that causes. The boys are suitably derisive, which is hugely satisfying even if it doesn't shift Castle's happy smile one jot. It's perfectly satisfactory, and she's not at all upset that he hasn't asked her, she's not disappointed at all. And then Ryan opens his big fat Irish mouth and blows it all to hell.

"Hey man, why don't you ask Beckett? She reads your books."

"I'm sure she's got other things to do," Castle says blandly. "Cases to solve, killers to catch. She wouldn't be interested. Not Beckett's scene at all. It's going to be packed with fans and publishing types. It's open to anyone, so everyone with any literary taste at all will come." He smiles smugly. "There's always a huge turnout at these things. When it's me reading, anyway." The boys splutter.

"You're so full of shit, bro. Serve you right if we turned up and heckled."

Castle grins, unbothered. "Go ahead. But don't blame me when you're body-slammed by a hundred crazed fans and turned into pate."

He hasn't missed Beckett's slight rigidity; her sudden focus on her paperwork. _Gotcha, Beckett_. He continues within his public persona, the smooth, humorous sociability, joshing with the boys. But somehow it doesn't feel as forced, as fake, as when he usually needs the shell: he knows that they don't believe him and he really doesn't care, because - how _odd_ – they're friendly. They're not trying to get one over on him, not trying to climb over him to get ahead, not trying to oh-so-subtly put him down. And – how odd, again – it's comfortable, real, sincere. His joshing isn't needed to cover up anything: he can just be himself. Whoever that is.

But in the meantime, Beckett is very obviously pretending to ignore the whole conversation. He thinks his plan's worked, and continues his exchange of compliments with Ryan and Esposito for the remainder of the day, until he leaves with a brief farewell and the promise that he'll tell them all about it. They make disgusted faces, and tell him not to bother if he doesn't want to be their next case.

* * *

Beckett leaves very shortly thereafter, telling herself that she's going home. Which indeed she does, and prowls restlessly around, movement in no way dissipating what she tells herself is the ridiculous desire to go to this reading. She should have stayed in the precinct and thumped hell out the punchbag, but she hasn't been into the gym since she'd sparred with Castle and lost. And it's not because going there triggers the memories of him lying over her, large, heavy and aroused. Not at all. Gradually, her mind constructs a perfect justification for why she should attend the reading; which gives her an excuse to turn up while still convincing herself that it's another way to drive him out the precinct, away from her. She's going to turn the tables on him. She's going to distract and disrupt his work. (work? What work? He never seems to do any work. All he does is drink coffee and make unhelpful comments and undress her with his gaze.) She's going to carp and criticise and interfere and annoy. See how he likes it. And to do it right, she needs to be… eye-catching; to stop him cold and remind him of everything he had, and isn't getting.

She selects a dress whose main virtues are its unignorable, traffic-stopping colour and the shortness of its skirt; reviews her hair and make-up and adjusts both appropriately to achieve her aim; finds a pair of complementary heels. Her gun and badge are in her purse. She's both armed and dangerous.

Her tactics initially seem to gain her precisely the result she wants. There's an audible stutter. But then it's unfortunately followed by an unwelcome, slow perusal and a flash of considerable, smugly self-satisfied pleasure. Beckett realises, far too late for it to do any good, that Castle's played her perfectly again. Under a well-practised, wholly unimpressed expression, she's furious with both herself and him. When he finishes, she barely bothers to raise her hands to applaud, and the few claps she does give only imply complete contempt. She certainly won't admit that he reads well, and that the voice has had its inevitable effect on her. It only makes her angrier to know that his sable tones stroke deep into her and leave certain muscles twitching.

Castle bounces up to her, clearly high on performing, adrenaline and applause. She channels the literary critics of the New York Times and disparages everything she can think of. He almost looks hurt. So she points out unkindly, and not entirely truthfully, that that's how he behaves to her in the precinct and, thoroughly satisfied that she's made her point, decides it's time to leave.

Which is when, through some appalling twist of unkind fate, she comes face to face with two redheads who twine themselves around Castle's arms in a way that only family can manage; the younger of whom looks faintly familiar. Oh God, it's his mother and daughter, congratulating him and stroking his immense ego, which _certainly_ doesn't need it. And then it all starts to go wrong in a hurry. They clearly know, or remember, who she is.

His mother looks round at the huge crowd, all picking up copies of his latest, and tells him, "Let's just hope Nikki Heat does as well."

"Nikki Heat?" she bleats, completely thrown by the apparent non-sequitur.

Who's Nikki Heat? The name sounds like it's straight out a bad porn movie. Suddenly everything starts to become clear. When he'd said the character was _a bit slutty_ she hadn't known the half of it. Surely he couldn't… And then his mother confirms all her worst fears.

"Nikki Heat. The character he's basing on you."

It's all it takes. The thin veneer of calm she'd lacquered over her anger and frustration incinerates in a microsecond. Castle's already backing away from her, out of range, but he doesn't look nearly as terrified as he should be. She'll shoot the smirk right off his stupid stubbly face.

Castle is hugely satisfied with the results of his earlier ploy. Beckett's swallowed the bait hook, line and sinker and now he's reeled her in. Oh yes. Not to mention that she's given away two things she'll wish she hadn't: that she really is a fan and that she's still interested in him. Even if she's pretending she hates him and hates the book. Her pungent criticism only bothers him momentarily, until she tells him – _Oh, Beckett, you've lost all your game_ – that she's just doing what he does. He thinks that he'll have considerable enjoyment from that admission, since he acts like that to attract her attention, keep her focused on him.

He'd scoped out the space earlier, just in case… opportunity… came calling, but it doesn't look like he's going to get a chance to use his research. Until his mother decides to interfere. Beckett's expression would have been unbelievably funny, if it didn't look like he might die in the next few seconds. But… this is his opportunity. He backs away in a very specifically chosen direction, hiding behind some cardboard cut-outs of him as he goes, luring Beckett nearer and nearer to where he wants her to be. She's so angry with him she hasn't even noticed that they're approaching the opened exit. All he needs to do is make it obvious he's laughing at her and her own fury will carry her past sense. It's her biggest blind spot where he's concerned, and he's using it to his own best advantage. Once she gets this angry, she just cannot stop to think. And when she's this angry, she's also incredibly hot. He remembers, briefly, how she felt beneath him, around him, and desire leaps up. He's waited quite long enough. Far too long. Time to take Beckett back.

He whips out the exit and slips to the side. Beckett emerges, as intent as she would be when she's chasing down a suspect, and when she can't see him stops and looks around, hostile gaze scoping out the territory. Castle whistles, and when she spins round on those killer heels and pierces him with a glare he knows he's won. She storms closer, fury delineating every curve of her body, and starts to unleash her wrath.

"You cannot use that name," she hisses. "It's not appropriate." Castle deliberately puts on an infuriating grin, and considers just how high Beckett's rage can be stoked. He knows just how much her incandescent anger feeds her arousal, how she doesn't seem able to separate the two.

"I like the name," he smirks. Beckett steps closer and puts more venom into her already deadly tone.

"Change it."

"Shan't." It's childish, and, just like she's another child in a temper, she's riled up even further. She steps another pace closer.

"Change it." And another step.

"Won't. You can't make me." He just needs to entice her to move one more step. And there it is, and – even better – she's raised her hand to jab at him. He whips his own hand up and catches hers and pulls her against him, holding her arms behind her, just tightly enough that she can't slap him.

"That's better," he husks. "You can't hit me now."

He smiles very slowly, watching the realisation dawn that he's not going to let her assault him, that he's quite strong enough to stop her doing so, and does nothing else. He doesn't think he needs to. (But he wants to. Wants to bend those few inches and take her mouth and make her writhe and moan. It would be so easy, and so pleasurable.) All he thinks he needs to do for now is hold her tightly for a few seconds (or maybe a few moments, or a few hours) and see what happens. See what she does about it: because there are two ways this could go: she could step back or struggle or pull away (and he'll let go of her, instantly, because he will _never_ be that other man); or she'll stay close, and maybe move a little inward. And then he'll know a little more about what turns her on, as if he didn't already: knows that giving up control does it for her, and suspects, based on earlier evidence, that being restrained does it more. But she has to come to him. This is as far as he'll go to force the pace. Even if she won't come to him now, he only has to wait, because there will be other opportunities to get right up close and personal with her, and eventually she'll part her lips and lean in and consent and that will be all the invitation that he needs, since as soon as he kisses her she'll melt. Just like last time. And when – not if, but when – she melts and flows, he'll have her, take her, keep her, own her.

_His._

Beckett stands stock still in Castle's grasp. Dark erotic instinct says lean in, let the creeping pleasure of being firmly held take over, let him take what her body wants to give. Common sense, rapidly evaporating in the pressure-cooker of years of suppressed desire, not at all mitigated by one hot night, tries to remind her of all the reasons that this is a bad idea. She wants him gone, her common sense says, not pulling her so close that she can feel every thick, hot inch of him. The moist crevices of her body say something very different about being this close, this held in.

She looks up – he's too tall: even when she's in heels he's so much bigger and broader than she, and she's very conscious of that disparity right now. He's big, and he's just a little overwhelming when she's captured like this. It only emphasises the edge of intimidation, the dangerous, overtly sexual magnetism rolling off him in tidal waves, drowning her sense, flooding her with sensation. Anger and arousal squirm and knot around each other, coiling in her stomach, till she's lost the ability to distinguish between them: all her mind dragged under as if it's Laocoon with the serpents. She's sinking for the third time: no lifebelt, no rescue. She succumbs to the dark sea of need. Nervousness causes her to touch moist tongue to dry lips, to shut her eyes and lean in. It's all the invitation that he needs.

And then he's pillaging her mouth and he's got one hand on the small of her back holding her hard into him and the other hand in her hair so she can't move away, can't leave him, and she's already moaning and her leg is curled round his and if she brings it any further up her dress won't be any barrier at all. He slides his fingers down across her ass to all that expanse of long, long leg, coming to rest high on her thigh and slipping secretively upward under the smooth fabric, snaking over her hipbone and _shit_ she's so responsive and he is not going to take her up against the wall but he's so ready and she's so open and – _no_. This is not the time for the hard, fast, incendiary sex that had been so good – and hadn't got him what he really wanted. This is a preparatory step, to addict her to the ways in which he can heat her up and turn her on and show her what she needs. (Him. She needs him.) Slow burn, not explosion. His fingers trace over her leg, stretching round to the soft skin of her inner thigh, and all his plans and intentions and control are dissolving as he touches more and more intimately.

Familiar voices dimly penetrate Castle's sex-sodden mind. He has to stop, before this becomes a PR disaster, or worse, a matter his family might take an interest in. He keeps his sex life, such as it is, very firmly separated from his family. He lifts reluctantly and slowly from Beckett's lips, swollen from the force of his kisses, and regards her dazed, drugged state with deeply primitive pleasure. Another step taking her down the primrose path, another step into the opium den of addiction and obsession and making all his (all her?) feverish hot wet dreams come true.

"People coming," he whispers. She snaps out of her haze, fierce intelligence back on her face.

"What the - " He silences her clear tones with a final hard, fast kiss, leaves her sliding out of sight, delicately poised against the wall, out of direct view of the door; butterfly pinioned on a board; and slips back inside to reach a safe distance from the exit before his absence is noted.

"Dad, Grams and I are going home. Are you coming" – _not_ a helpful phrase, Alexis – "with us or do you need to stay?" She's so clean and fresh and bright and hopeful that he'll join them.

If he stays, he'll go back out and finish what he started, one way or another. And he doesn't want to take the risk that she behaves the same way afterwards: that the Beckett inferno in bed becomes the Beckett ice shelf the following morning. No. He'll addict her, and then she'll come to him. He'll seep into her veins and slither under her skin and she'll feel the clawing, prickling, desperate need for the high of release that she'll only, only find in him. She'll come to him, because he'll be the only source of supply to give her satisfaction. Properly… managed… she'll beg for her next fix, the next high. He'll be the only one who's enough for her.

His erotic musings are rudely interrupted by his mother's stage tones. "Are you coming, Richard?"

"Okay," he says amiably, and follows his mother and daughter out to the waiting car. It occurs to him, on the ride home, that he's just pulled the same trick on Beckett as she had on him in the precinct: departing without a fare-thee-well, leaving her hot and frustrated and alone. It'll feed her addiction.

He doesn't consider the extent of his own addiction.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. One point, for mvm, to whom I can't respond. There is a difference between Castle **knowing** Beckett's name and Beckett **telling** him her name._

_Please carry on telling me your thoughts._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Where do we go from here?**

Mind restored, Beckett slowly pulls her shattered composure back together and makes a few frantic, pointless repairs to her appearance before slipping inside and finding the restroom, unnoticed by anyone who matters. It wouldn't be too bad - her dress is intact, no obvious marks - except for the look on her face. Her pupils are still huge, her lips slightly bee-stung, and she looks like she's absolutely ready to be pushed up against a wall. Blood is throbbing through her veins, leaving her flushed and pulsing. _What the hell just happened_? Giving in to that was so completely not the plan at all. One minute she was trying to deal with that insulting, ridiculous name. Surely he's only using it to infuriate her? The next she's leaned in and being ruthlessly kissed and touched and turned into that hot liquid flow that dissolves her mind and fires her body. She takes a couple of quick breaths, trying to slow her racing heart, and splashes cold water over her flushed cheeks. Definitely time to get home. She needs to stop and think hard about what's going on here, because it's just not who she is, or what she does, at all. She's never been so completely overwhelmed by – lust. That's all it is, sheer lust – before. Even when she'd been at Stanford, spreading shadowy wings and experimenting with anything that took her fancy, she'd preserved a certain distance, watched and listened and learned and absorbed behind a little barrier, never let herself be overcome or overwhelmed.

This reaction is disturbingly different. Both times, she's entirely lost all sense of time and place, submerged in the instant and only capable of physical reaction. It's very unnerving to realise that she can be wholly swept away; that a man she doesn't even like can so completely overtake her mind and body and turn her on so damn much that she can't even remember that she hates him before she welcomes him between her legs. She becomes unpleasantly aware that she's still extremely damp and very frustrated. When she exits the restroom and notices (not that she's looking. No.) the absence of Castle and both redheads she tells herself that she's not disappointed in the slightest, rather she is wholly relieved, and leaves with alacrity. All the way home, unquenched heat burns through her.

Once she's safely in the haven of her apartment, Beckett pours a sizeable glass of wine and retreats into her well-worn method of solace for all forms of annoyance or pain: a deep, scalding-hot, soothing bath, liberally laced with scented bubbles. It's always meant comfort, contentment; since she was very small, and despite all the changes that time has brought to her life it brings her peace: a still centre which holds her apart from the violence that circles around her outside her home. Gradually she calms, asserts full control of her body, her mind, her life; and starts to put her ferocious focus and intelligence to work on the present problem. Perhaps if she can analyse it she can deal with it.

So. One: (no point in denying this) he is very seriously hot. Exactly what she likes, in bed. He couldn't have suited her better in bed if she'd placed an order, and a detailed specification, with _Bad-Boys-R-Us._ She wriggles, shifting the bubbles around her. Two: her reaction to him is terrifyingly intense, whether it's to his voice or his touch, whether it's anger or (admit this too, Kate) arousal. No matter how much she pretends contempt, coldness or indifference, it's not working. Three: he's clever, and starting to be useful, when it comes to solving murders. Not just a pretty face. It's…_ helpful_… to have a biting intelligence to think against; to argue and debate and theorise. The boys just can't give her that - competition. It spurs her on, helps her work it harder, faster, solve it sooner: satisfy the driving demand of her clawing need to give the victim the justice they deserve. It's still never soon enough to sate her demons, but it helps. But, four: she hates him. For making her think of all of the above reasons, and then because he's an arrogant jackass who's scratching a dark-side itch; slumming it in the Twelfth till he goes back to the glitterati and celebrity girlfriends.

But a small snake of honesty squirms into her mind: regardless of how much she hates his smug, self-indulgent style; she wants him. Badly, darkly, and continuously; and he hasn't done anything that she hasn't invited. He's in her searing dreams and under her wakened skin; and even if she could get him kicked to the kerb, which is not going to be possible for as long as he's making nice with Montgomery, it won't make her feel any better, it'll just add another layer of repressed emotion and desire to an already pressured mix. Her self-inflicted obligations already chain her; wrapping her tightly. She can't squeeze much more within them, without breaking.

She sinks back under the foam, letting the almost-too-hot water cloak her, just that critical degree away from scalding. The heat relaxes her tension and the soapy water slides gently over her, bringing her down from her anger, letting her forget that she's alone. She reaches for the soft body wash she loves, and begins to lave it over herself: her arms, her legs, her torso; smooth firm strokes, slipping and sliding and suddenly stimulating; the feel of her own fingers melding into the memory of Castle's harder digits on her, all over her, hands so surely exerting the right to take and hold and possess and dominate. If she only let him, let go, he could fulfil every fantasy she's had: reality, not just dreams. She slips slim hands beneath the bubbles and lets temptation take her: picturing in her mind herself stretched out, arms above her head, silk and steel around her wrists, wantonly desperate and wholly dependent on the firm hands and body of the man who's teasing, tantalising, twisting her tighter and tighter until she shudders and screams and shatters.

Release surges through her and she lies back in the bath until her breathing slows and the water starts to cool. None of it really helps. If she has this reaction to him when he isn't even here, isn't touching her, she's already in so far over her head that she's done for. Dark, explicit dreams can be explained away as unconscious, purely physical, need; impulses from deep within the hidden canyons of her repressions: but falling into the trap of conscious fantasising to provide relief, using the cause of that unsatisfied desire, is a step down a dangerous trail. She doesn't even like him. (_but your body likes him_, says the irritating worm of honesty. _Your body really likes him_.)

Now what?

She readies herself for sleep, undecided whether going to bed is really the right idea, whether she should stay up a while, read, or watch a movie, anything to avoid the thoughts that are biting at her brain, anything to avoid having to make a decision. Like, dislike; want, don't want; anger, arousal. Hate – not hate. It's only about sex. Nothing else. But if she doesn't make some conscious decisions, just like earlier her body will make them for her: give into its craving for size and strength and danger; give in to the raw need that's been burning through her for weeks. Simply give in. That same poisonous worm whispers that she'll give in the next time he touches her, whatever conscious decisions she tells herself she's making, because she can't – or won't – stand against her own needs any longer. So why fight it? Why not, whispers treacle-thick temptation, why not just give in? Let herself drop into the dark. Surrender. It's what she wants.

But only in bed.

She can't afford to surrender her career, her history, her reputation, her life. The life she's so carefully constructed to protect her heart and soul from any further damage, to find for others that which she can't provide for herself. She doesn't need to be protected, she doesn't need to be cosseted or cared for. Or loved. She's been loved: so much loved. And then it was all taken away. She's gartered on the chains she's made in life; the shackles of obligations to the living and the dead, and she isn't going to loosen them, cry havoc and let slip the dogs of her own private war. She's done that once, and she can't risk doing it again. She's escaped that rabbit hole. She has to stay away from its edge.

Maybe it could work. He's a spoilt, arrogant writer with no interest in her beyond bed and the details of the job and the precinct. He won't be digging into her past: he's too egotistical. If there's nothing more to it… if she can keep him away from anything other than bed – shouldn't be difficult – if she can do that, then maybe she can have this, for a while. It won't last. She's not looking for a long-term relationship: she doesn't even like him. She'll be bored of his celebrity personality soon enough. She wouldn't be looking for any sort of a relationship at all if her body wasn't reacting like this. Why him, she thinks angrily. Why not someone a little more – likeable? Anyway, it won't be a _relationship_. It'll just be physical.

She retires to her soft pillows and cool sheets; drifting into sleep rather than falling hard over the cliff-edge of exhaustion that so often ends her day. Her dreams are waiting to ambush her: not gentle or peaceful or slow and sensual as they should be following the soothing bath and self-relief; but hot and erotic and full of dark seduction.

In the morning temptation still nestles on her shoulder, whispering softly, sensually in her ear. She's no nearer a decision than she was last night and her indecision makes her angrier than usual. It being Sunday, no new body, no reason to go to the precinct except to trawl uselessly through cold cases, the only way to silence the devil is to pound the pavements, subsuming everything in the pull and stretch of long, hard running, until the only thing left is the muscle and the motion.

* * *

In his own loft Castle is considering, without imposing any restraint on the darker recesses of his thinking, the fastest way to cause addiction, and steering well clear of any irritating impulses to ethics. There are no ethics when it comes to getting Beckett into his bed. He thinks carefully through everything he already knows about the effect of his touch, the way she reacts to being held, her inability to separate anger from arousal. If he were Rook, and she were his Nikki, his creation, then… then he wouldn't need to do this, because she'd already be his. He pushes that unhelpful thought away. She's not Nikki, and she's not – yet – his. So think about Beckett.

What makes her angry, also makes her hot. All ways round. So… each time they've… connected… she's been furious, and when he's touched her she's exploded. Ah. That's it, isn't it? She's always angry: with him, with the situation, with the killer, with the time it takes to solve the crime. If he adds even a small portion of touch to the cauldron of that boiling, bubbling mix, he'll make her, and keep her, hot. And then he'll reap the benefit, as soon as they're alone. But. But he's not stupid, and he's taken to heart the harsh lessons she's dealt him. Don't try to treat her like a weakling – she's not. Don't mess with her job – she'll never forgive that. And don't forget that her car has camera recorders. That still leaves a lot of options for delicate, erotic teasing; accidental (ri...ight) touching; intimate murmurs. He'll addict her, and she won't even realise until it's far too late. She'll come to _him_. Oh yes. She won't be able to resist. He'll use her own blind spot against her and she'll be in his arms and under his mouth and then beneath him in bed, and _she'll_ have come to _him_.

And when she's open and purring and sated and his, he might find out a little more about her. Just a little, to understand why she's so angry with the world. Just to understand enough to keep her with him, to stop her leaving.

Yet again, he doesn't hear the yammering warning in his head. He might have control in bed, though that's in considerable doubt, but he hasn't even noticed that he's lost all control of his original strategy. He might want to addict her, but he's no less obsessed now than he was on the very first day.

* * *

Castle stays well away from the precinct the next day, until a new body drops and Beckett calls: the familiar note of anger noticeably elevated as it underlies her sharp instructions as to the place of the death, brief details, hard click of cut call. It's as if he's done something extra to annoy her before he's even opened the latest battlefront in their own private war. He runs back over his conclusions, and decides that her increased annoyance gives him a flanking advantage before he commences the main attack. Underneath, his curiosity as to the reason for all this anger mixes quietly, unobtrusively, into his still-constant level of arousal. He needs to know a little more, to ensure he pushes the right buttons to keep her. (_I'm leaving, Rick. I need space.) _Time to investigate the investigator, when the opportunity comes knocking. When it does, he'll invite it in. If it doesn't, he'll start to search it out. Information, intelligence, after all, is a key component of strategy; the major asset in any war of conquest. She'd said, with the cold contempt, laced with disbelief, that she still hasn't wholly lost: _so I could be one of your conquests_? Well, she will be. He'll win this war.

He departs for the crime scene on the self-satisfied tide of a thought through plan. He's got it all worked out: strategy, tactics, intelligence gathering. He'll start now. No point in waiting, hoping that she'll see his qualities without him having to try; that hasn't worked. He needs to show her what she wants.

The crime scene is dirty and nasty and the corpse was completely frozen, though it's starting to thaw rather unpleasantly. As the body's taken away, and the little crowds of CS techs, Lanie, uniforms and Ryan and Esposito disperse to their separate duties, Castle makes sure he's standing fractionally closer to Beckett than he's dared to try in public before now; close enough that the slight swing of their respective coats catches the fabrics together. He hears her sharp hiss of irritation at the interference with her smooth strides; matches her move as she tries to find clear space, gives it three steps and then uses the excuse of the widening street to move away. It's not his plan to let her spot his game. Though if she does… she'll be so incandescently angry that he'll be able to roll up all her defences in one swift surge. Hmm. That's not such a good idea as it seems. _Remember the plan, Rick. Addiction, not explosion_.

As the case progresses, Beckett feels more and more claustrophobic. Castle's too close; all the time: never quite close enough to call out, never quite touching her. She doesn't – quite – have the justification she needs to rake him down for it, and as a result her normal level of irritation elevates. It doesn't help that she can't see her way through the case, either. Nothing is popping.

Late two nights in, after another long evening alone in the bullpen, circling around and around the conflicting evidence, she realises with considerable annoyance, only fuelled by her lack of decisions about what she wants and the physical effects of Castle's constant proximity, that she needs someone to argue it with. And there is, depressingly, only one candidate. She needs to fight her theories and evidence out against another intelligence, someone who doesn't think cop. The conclusion doesn't please her, but her duty to the dead demands that she leave her personal problems behind. She'll do whatever it takes to gain justice for the victim. And if she realises that she could simply call, or ask him to come to the precinct… she doesn't let herself know it.

She parks below Castle's block; stays sitting in her cruiser for a long time. It's already too late to pretend that the timing is anything other than another aspect of her obsession with crime solving; no way to disguise that she's spent another long evening at work rather than having any sort of a life. At least she can hide that her motives for doing this are at best mixed. She's no closer to deciding what to do about him, and while she desperately needs to solve this case, and this is the only way she can see to sort out her tangled thinking; if she were honest with herself she'd admit that he's been prodding her irritation and arousal into that same mix of frustration and fury that left her naked under him and screaming his name. She isn't only here in search of his mind, but she won't admit that she's decided what she wants even to herself.

When Castle hears the door sound, he's surprised. People don't normally come around at this hour without a specific invitation, which he hasn't issued to anyone in some time. His mother's … friends… tend to meet her elsewhere, fortunately. He pads out to find out what new peculiarity this might be.

He is astonished, astounded and absolutely delighted to find Beckett on the other side of the door. _Ah, Beckett. You've come to me_. Well. Well, well, well. Opportunity's come calling after all. Arousal leaps up, and he has to batten down his urge to pull her in the door and kiss her till she melts, take her to the bedroom and make her whimper and beg and moan and admit she's his. He stops, horrified. This is his _home_. He doesn't bring that aspect of his life home. He won't expose Alexis to anything like that. But Beckett's _here_, right within his grasp, and it takes more self-restraint than he knew he had to keep his hands off her.

"Well, Detective Beckett," he says smoothly, as if he'd always known she'd show up at his loft late at night, "to what do I owe the pleasure?" She glares at him, and he sees the fury roiling under her cool demeanour. Just what he wants to see. He ushers her through to the quiet, dangerous privacy of his study, taking the opportunity to stroke a hand over her back and not missing the shiver that runs over her when he does. Anger feeding arousal: Beckett summed up in three words. And here. He still doesn't understand that, but he's sure he'll find out why in a moment. She's wired, electric, humming with the spiky tension that never seems to leave her - except that once. He'd dissipated it then; he'll do it again. But first, why's she here?

It takes her a minute to get over the sheer size of Castle's loft, when the door opens, to put aside the instant feeling of intimidation-by-wealth. Nothing intimidates her. Nothing. And then he slides a hard stroke down her back and steers her into a mostly closed room and she can't stop the shudder and the heat that flares immediately within her. She clings to her ostensible, admissible reason for being here: solving the case, bringing justice to the dead, and it clears her mind from the potential flashpoint standing right in front of her. She's relieved when he turns away and sits down: less imposing, less likely to cause… distractions. Although she could have done without the summing up of her similarities to Batman. That's all too close to the reality she doesn't like to talk about: tries not to think about too often. She can't face falling again.

And then they start to argue the case and it's mercifully like being in the bullpen. Eventually both of them run out of ideas, shoulder to shoulder perched on the edge of the desk, as if it's the edge of safety. The only thing left to do to spark a solution will be to go to the apartment that the suspect used to live in.

"We can't go and walk through the scene tonight. The current tenant won't let you in at past eleven, Beckett." She moves restlessly, and he sees again the uncertainty that stopping brings her, feels her tension rise, senses that this is a decision point – and decides that he's going to sway that decision in the right – for him – direction.

"How about a glass of wine? I have a nice red just begging to be tasted." It's not the only thing he'd like to have begging to be tasted. She looks momentarily deeply unsure, and below that he thinks she wants to be persuaded to stay. Not that she'll say she wants to stay, or admit her desire for persuasion. She's feeling the first small bites of craving, of addiction.

"No." She clips out the word, irritation re-establishing itself. "Driving." That's the one argument he wouldn't even try to counter. But she's _here_, and he wants her to stay. He'll make her stay, just for a while.

Till he's satisfied.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. All shall be revealed, eventually. You didn't expect quick and easy from me, did you?_

_You will have noticed that I have started deviating from the episodes as shown. This is not accidental. Only the actual case details will remain the same. Everything else is fair game and may differ from canon at any time and in any way._

_Please keep telling me your thoughts. I appreciate all your reviews._


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Night fever**

"Coffee, then." It's not a question. "Just to make sure you don't fall asleep when you're driving home." She growls. He slides past her, near enough that he can sense her indrawn breath, and is through the door and in the kitchen before she has the chance to object. She doesn't follow him, which does not improve his mood. She'd only come because of a case, had she? Only to use his mind as a filter, to clear her own thoughts? Hmm. Not very likely, Beckett. Not likely at all. And he remembers the way she'd shivered under his touch, and how precisely their minds meshed together. (_I don't follow you, Rick. Why can't you just think sensibly?_) He makes the coffee and returns to the study, finding her sitting, eyes closed; clearly thinking over the case, judging by the crease between her brows; in an armchair some way from his desk. He puts the cups down quietly and prowls across to perch on the arm of the chair. She doesn't stir, doesn't overtly react, but her breathing changes, just enough to notice; a little shallower, a little faster.

Beckett is trying to walk through the potential scenarios in her head, and failing. Maybe coffee will help. Maybe sleeping would. But under both thoughts she knows she's tweaking the tail on the tiger by staying any longer; testing to destruction and beyond the breaking strain of her own self-discipline. She knows perfectly well, after the initial palm stroke down her back, that he'll go further, unless she actively discourages it very, very shortly. Because after all, you don't go visiting at past ten without a good reason; and you don't stay for coffee at past eleven if your motives are entirely pure. Not with a man you've already slept with; who fires your body and cremates your control, and who knows it. If her motives were pure she'd have left already: instead she's sitting in his study pretending she doesn't know why she's there.

So. Seems like she might have made her decision after all. Body beats brain: primitive instincts taking over. But still she hesitates, reluctant to admit her choices to herself, consent by acquiescence, until the initiative is taken from her.

"Why'd you come here, Beckett?" His voice is low and dark; teasing down her skin. "This could have waited till tomorrow." She shakes her head, clearing it of his drawling, seductive tone. She can't afford to be confused by his voice. But it's quiet here; traces of cologne in the air, the shifting scent somehow lowering her resistance, reminding her that she'd smelt it on his skin, on her sheets.

He slips a soft finger over her cheek, traces it lightly across her lips. She turns her head away from his hand, which means towards him. Why did she come here? Well, to argue out the case, her mind says; still pretending she hasn't decided what she wants. But her body says something very different, under the subtle, delicate touch. He's looking at her as if he knows she's about to lie: too big, too close, too perceptive. Arrogant, smug Writer-Boy shouldn't be perceptive. And so she doesn't lie: gives back absolute, bitter, truth.

"The dead can't wait. Shouldn't have to wait." He files that, with her earlier confession, for later; notes the acid in her tone, and decides against a smart-ass comment. There's more to that remark than meets the eye. He feels the rest of her untold story begin to push against his mind, and pushes right back at it. He doesn't need, doesn't want, to know it all. Just enough to keep her.

"You could have called. Instead you came." He brings his hand back to her face, holds her chin to turn her towards him. Anger begins to burn in her eyes at his presumption, not hiding the dark truth of her desire. "You wanted to come, didn't you, Beckett? Wanted to see me." He puts arrogance, certainty, into his voice, and hears her breathing change again, watches her temper start to flare and, just as he'd surmised, her eyes darken and dilate.

"You didn't just come to talk about the case." He slides his finger across her mouth again, just hard enough to unseal her lips. "You came for this." And he kisses her, tastes the dark blend of anger and arousal, feels the instant heat and her opening for him, and pushes into her mouth. Just as he'd hoped, _she's _ come to _him_. He's won. She's here and she's his and he's won. (_It's just a game, kitten. Why are you so upset?_)

He'd dreamed of her, last night. He'd written Nikki, stretched across Rook's bed, heels and stockings and nothing else: Rook holding her still and apart and winding her up and stopping, winding her up and stopping, tongue and lips and teeth and fingers, till Nikki lost control and screamed and begged Rook to be inside her. And then he'd gone to bed, aroused all over again, and dreamed of Beckett, wearing that silk-sin dress, pushed up around her waist, panties ripped away: naked and open and ready for him; and in his dreams he'd done everything he already had, and so much more.

He curves a possessive arm across her, so that she won't move away from him, and proceeds to take complete, leisurely ownership of her mouth; resisting all her efforts to duel him into submission. It doesn't stop her fighting him for control, dominance; and as he tries to impose himself on her his kisses become harder, rougher; turn from the smooth dance he'd started with to nips on her full lips and thrusts and forceful tangling; forerunner of what he'll do. Beckett responds equally forcefully, still seeking to prove her own control of this game. But she won't, in the end. He'll convince her it'll be better if he's in charge.

He sweeps his hand down under her hip, lifts her without the slightest effort and slides in beneath her so she's caught in his lap and he can angle her head to open up the curve of her neck and kiss down the line of her jaw and make her gasp; start to open her button-down and slip his fingers inside and play with – ohhh. Silk and lace and soft skin and hard peaks and he brings his fingers down, unbuttoning her as fast as he'd promised himself he wouldn't, spreading the cotton shirt wide and gazing down at incarnate wickedness. _This _is what she wears to work? It thunders through his mind that no vanilla cop, obsessed with her job and completely indifferent to anything else, wears _this_ to work. He'd thought that the silk she wore to their date had been intoxicating: this is equally so; allurement, enticement, invitation. She wears lingerie like this _all the time_? That's another difficult disruption to divert his thoughts during his days at the precinct: already damaged by Beckett's constant effect on him. And another facet that simply does not fit. Something, somewhere, explains these uncorrelated facts: the shattered mirror that reflects all these disparities and discontinuities needs to be made whole. If he finds out why, the back of his brain whispers, delicately and temptingly, then he'll have the lever he needs to move her world into his; keep her close: cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in. _(Why are you leaving? Can't I come with you?) _For now, however, he'll provide a little taste of the drug he's addicting her to. And if he can't resist taking it either, well, he's sure he'll be able to give it up any time he likes.

He returns all attention from the lingerie to the person wearing it. Sinfully gorgeous it might be, but his primary aim is to turn Beckett into the soft, purring, pettable kitten he'd wanted to hold on to, curled into his body, for the whole of the night. (and longer) She's still trying to take control: has somehow managed to shove up his T-shirt and is none-too-gently scraping over his skin, playing with his nipples and encroaching ever further downward, insinuating the possibility of his surrender to her wicked mouth and clever fingers and sharp nails. No, no, no. _She's_ to surrender, admit defeat in this battle and cry for quarter. He ignores the effects of her forays and essays a raid of his own, sweeping down across the taut line of her stomach to release the fastening of her pants and flirt dangerously with the rim of lace revealed. She squirms against his hand. Time to change up.

The arm that's been holding her head comes round to hold her tight against his chest, other hand detaching her predatory fingers from hunting below his waist. She gives a disappointed little growl and tries to tug her hands away.

"Uh-uh. I'm in charge, Beckett," he murmurs slumbrously in her ear, nipping it lightly to point his moral. "I'll decide what we do." He kisses wetly round to a previously undiscovered nerve below her ear which makes her wriggle and gasp. "You like that." His long reach allows the hand around her shoulders to stretch down and tease along the edges of her bra, shift the deep crimson silk over her nipples, delicate, dangerous movement that leaves them waiting for more. "You like that too." Neither is a question. He'll seduce her just as deeply with dark, evocative words as with hands and mouth. More so, in fact. He'll bring her to the point where she's so lost in the picture he'll paint that the lightest touch will take her over the edge.

"If I let go of your wrists will you stop clawing, Beckett? Or do I need to take... other measures, so you don't draw blood?" He punctuates his words with a slide of his hand over her breast, and she squirms again against the shackle of his grip, breathes out a long sigh that might be a moan.

"Yessss." Her freed hands slide softly up around his neck, dragging his head down.

"That's a good girl. Now... let's see what you like." He strokes the soft skin over her flat abs, circling her navel and gradually drawing sigils lower and lower, till she starts to move against the touch. He simultaneously slips his hand down to cup through the silk panties and brings his other hand up to cover her mouth, muffle the noise she makes as she pushes against him for the friction she wants. "Like that?" but he doesn't give her space to speak before he strokes across the wet silk, shifting it just as he'd done with the silk of her bra, winding her higher without ever touching her flesh. "I like this: you all wet and writhing under my hands and not in control at all. Is this what you like, Beckett? Someone else in charge? Someone who'll tease you and kiss you and play rough with you and who's big enough to hold you down till you stop fighting and clawing and give in? Isn't that how you like it?"

Stop _talking_, Castle. Stop using that velvet voice to amplify his actions; stop purring darkly in her ear, predation in every soft, seductive syllable; stop drawling liquid sex down her synapses and through her body. She tries to move against his grasp and succeeds only in being wrapped tighter in. And then his fingers move the fabric aside and trail through the oiled silk of her body and he kisses her hard to swallow the moans that she emits when he slides long, thick digits inside her and glides slowly in and out until moan becomes begging becomes his name screamed into his mouth and the world around her is limited to his lips and his hands and his body.

After Beckett shatters across his hand, Castle doesn't release her, doesn't in any way loosen his grip. Instead, he tucks her in against his chest, both arms around her, cradling her against his broad shoulder, playing gently with a wisp of dark hair. She fits into the cage of his body surprisingly comfortably. He doesn't want to let her go yet. He tells himself, through the last fine filaments of his control, only holding because this is still his house and he _does not_ do this here, that he isn't finished, she's not purring yet, there's more to be done to prove his case; and ignores that he's broken half his own house rules and is only the couple of strides that it would take to reach his bedroom door from riding roughshod over the rest of them. He might have satisfied her, for the moment, but not himself: and he's not convinced (not least because he doesn't want to stop) that he's brought Beckett to a point where _she's_ convinced to stay.

The fingers that are playing idly with her hair catch on a slim chain. Castle investigates – she'd worn this at dinner, too, though he'd been too busy to investigate later, and to the Storm reading, and he's mildly curious as to what it is – running it between his fingers and finding not the expected pendant but a ring.

"What's that, Beckett?" It's a casual question, and he certainly doesn't expect the instant tension in her body and the shutters of her reserve slamming down. Neither is obvious in her voice when she answers, but she can't conceal the physical reaction when she's this close. His senses come to full attention.

"A ring." Her voice stays completely uninflected. "It's pretty, but it's not practical to wear it at work." Sharp nervousness is bleeding through her body, and she sits up away from him and then stands, evading his grip without any effort at all, tidying her clothing and looking for her jacket. It's time to go. Questions are not wanted: the neutral, uninformative reply sufficient, she hopes, to hide the importance of the jewellery, to brush him off.

"Don't go yet." Castle reaches for her, but somehow she's out of range. Beckett flicks a glance at her watch. There's another oddity. That's a man's watch. Beckett is very put together, and a man's watch is not congruent with her general style of outerwear, nor the feminine, sexy underwear.

"I need to go." That is not the right reply at all. She's not reacting correctly. She's supposed to want more, to stay, to let him play some more; all his house rules forgotten. He wants her so very, very badly; the chance to replace his hot dreams of her spread across his bed with the carnal reality, currently standing in his study. He stands himself, unobtrusively placing himself as a barrier, leaning on the doorframe, blocking the handle. It could all be accidental, if he weren't deliberately ensuring she'll have to touch him before she can leave. There's another opportunity here to catch her; wrap her into his web; willing participant in the dark melding of both their desires.

"Why? It's not late." She supposes it isn't, if you don't want to be on shift before 8 a.m.

"I have to go," she repeats.

"Go where? Home?" He looks sharply at her, notes the slight, inadvertent move of negation. "Or – are you going back to the precinct? Seriously?"

She's insane. Or obsessed.

"The dead shouldn't have to wait, Castle." It's the same as she'd said much earlier. "They're too important." She picks up her purse. He takes the implication – that he's not that important – without visibly wincing at its fanged bite, and stays precisely where he is.

"What do you think you're going to achieve at midnight? That's just being there. You won't get any further till we walk the scene." A spark of irritation charges his tone. She should want to stay here, with him.

"At least I'll have peace and quiet to think in." She isn't even trying to hide the insult. And that just does it. She won't stay here, where she ought to want to, and explore some of the mutually enjoyable games that he thinks she'd like to play – and she's making it unpleasantly clear that she doesn't want him at the precinct with her. Now or any time. Short sharp sizzling sex and then ignore him? He doesn't think so. His own obsession and frustration and desire combine to destroy the remnants of his fragile control over his temper.

"So you can do it all yourself in peace and quiet?" His voice is low and cold and angry, edged with acid. "Yeah, right. You had to come here so I could think it out. You couldn't do it." He's furious. She'd come for help and now she's treating his input and his presence as if it were irrelevant, and worse, unwanted.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'd have worked it out myself. All you did was speed it up a little." She's just as bitter as he. "Excuse me, please." That carries a freighter-load of chilled indifference, though the snap of her own anger, never far from the surface, is lurking like a bear-trap beneath the cold tone.

He moves a fraction, enough for her to think that leaving is an option; and when she takes the strides necessary to reach and try to walk past him, out the door and away from him, grabs her by the shoulders. She shall not pass. He's painfully hard: anger feeding arousal again, but this time it's his.

"Back off, Castle." The sharp edge of contempt is back in her clear voice. He doesn't think she even knows her hand is drifting towards where her gun would be. He doesn't drop his hands, pulls her hard against his obvious frustration; all set to crash down on her mouth and turn her into the writhing, wanton mess he knows she'd become under his lips – _and he will never be that other man_. He lets go and steps back as fast as if she'd burned him. He'd promised himself, so very long ago, that he would never turn into that man, never use wealth or power or physical force to take what he wants without consent. Not ever. And he never, ever, breaks his promises.

She's brought him to the edge of destruction, and it's all his own fault. He's losing control: of the game, of himself. He has to calm down, regain self-discipline, stop reacting like this. He's famously suave, and yet she's stripped him of every bit of smooth sophistication. He needs to get her out of his system, stat. But not like this. Never like this.

He opens the study door, whispers, "I'm sorry," as she passes him and watches her walk out, across his loft, out the front door. He doesn't dare see her out, doesn't dare come within arm's reach of her, scared of what he might do. She doesn't look back at him, or acknowledge the words. He shuts the study door again and sags into a chair. He needs to think. He really, badly, needs to think. Instead he stares blankly at the wall and wonders what the hell just happened.

* * *

Beckett sits in her cruiser and, in unknowing duplication, wonders what the hell just happened. She understands the first part, and the second. Understanding ceases right about the point he first stopped her leaving and then stepped right back.

So, think. The already-familiar instant, incendiary, mutual arousal. Hmm. Pause there. It's clearly not just she who's struggling not to fall headfirst into the physical at the expense of all restraint and moderation. He might be very, very good at this, but he's no more in control of his reactions than she is: unable to stop the spark becoming the arc becoming the lightning storm. Ah. That helps, puts certain aspects of this evening into a degree of perspective. She'd thought the tiger whose tail she was tweaking was her own self-control. Not so much. Seems like she's walked into the middle of a whole streak of tigers, naked and draped in steak. She'd _thought_ that he wasn't more than casually interested, not really more involved than a pleasant, brief interlude in his playboy life; scratching an itch and only pursuing her because she'd turned him down, wouldn't give him what he wanted on a plate. She should have seen that _that_ might not be true straight after the first episode, but she hadn't wanted to. He might have been thoroughly smooth at the beginning of …er… affairs, (certain muscles spasm in memory) but those last few minutes had been anything but.

She applies another dose of focused thought, calling on her skills as a detective. Review the facts: the course of events. He'd asked a question that leads straight to areas that she doesn't want to get into, so she'd decided that was her cue to leave, before he could pry any more. And she'd stood up from something that had more closely resembled a protective, possessive hold than a simple post-sex hug. Then he'd gotten angry – he'd wanted her to stay, she'd brushed him off to deal with the dead rather than play with the living – might not have been tactful, but that's who she is – she'd gotten angrier, and it had all been about to explode into a very physical form of argument, just like all the other times, which would undoubtedly have turned into a very physical form of… something else… when he'd turned marble-white and stopped stone dead. That was …unexpected. Oh. _This_ time had been different, hadn't it? He'd not waited to see if she wanted to play: he'd realised after a moment that she didn't want to – and, like any decent man would, he'd stopped, despite his blatantly obvious frustration. So far, so normal. Irritating and flirtatious and blazingly sexual notwithstanding, she's never thought that he was the sort of man who'd take by force anything that he wouldn't be given with consent. And if she'd needed, or wanted, proof of that, she's got it.

But that doesn't explain his utterly appalled reaction to his own actions. Some noticeable upset, some heartfelt apology, yes: that's how a decent man behaves when he's come that close to the line. Numb horror, not so much. Hmm. Beckett scents a mystery. She pushes the tickle of curiosity away. If she wants a mystery she doesn't need to look outside her own head. All she needs to know is that, however much of a spoilt, wealthy playboy he might be, at core she can trust him to stop when asked. Even if he still irritates the hell out her, even if she doesn't like him, he makes her feel so darkly, wickedly good that she doesn't want to give it up.

Right. A blazing affair, no questions asked. Or answered. It'll burn itself out, soon enough, but in the interim she'll have what she wants: hard muscle and razor mind, alpha bad-boy, the strength that will let her let go. He's exactly what she likes in bed, and just for once she's going to _have_ what she likes.

She taps out a text.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers, logged in or not. I appreciate all of your comments._


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Sweet deceit comes calling**

Castle's too tired, now, to undertake the thinking he needs to do. All his brash confidence has cindered on self-loathing: all the certainty that he'd make Beckett come to him, that she'd play his game, dissolved. The grey fog of failure swirls around him. It's a feeling he thought he'd left behind for ever, until he met Detective_ I-can-destroy-you_ Beckett.

Surely he can atone for his stupidity? The only solution he can see is to convince her to come back to him; keep her with him, show her that he'll only do what she agrees to. If he can get her back then he won't have failed. And she'd wanted him. She _had_. He has to cling to that. _She'd _come to _him_. He always gets what he wants: surely he can have this – her – too?

The soft beep of Castle's phone cuts through his numbness. When he sees that it's a text from Beckett, he's reluctant even to open it, still less read it, fearing – with reason, he feels – that it's an instruction to stop shadowing her.

_Field trip at 10. Don't be late._

Bitter, churning tension drains away, replaced by relief and exhaustion, and he takes himself to bed.

Sleep comes easy. Rest is much harder to find. Castle's night is broken by sudden startlements and the taint of half-remembered, miasmic nightmare: phantasmagoric figures shifting, skulking through the shadows of his dreams. When he wakes, he's not refreshed, and nothing is any clearer. It takes a long, hot shower and an enormous quantity of caffeine to push him into motion; to act normally; to squash all his old insecurities back into the box they'd squirmed so poisonously out from. He's still terrified by what he'd so nearly done; terrified that he's becoming the man he never wanted to be.

* * *

But all his trepidation seems to have been a waste of adrenaline, as he arrives in the bullpen, slightly early for their trip. In the same way as the last time he'd done something truly stupid, Beckett's behaving as if the immediate fight and apology had nullified it. As if it had never happened. Some small self-belief re-asserts itself.

She snaps at him just as normal, and displays exactly her normal level of irritation, not scared of him (not that he thinks that likely) or regarding him as if he's scum. He's immensely reassured. And, he thinks, today's going to be especially interesting, from a research point of view. They're going to a potential crime scene to recreate what might have happened, build a theory – and it was his idea, and Beckett's approved it, and by implication him, and maybe it'll produce something useful. He'll have done something useful. Again. Suddenly he's much happier. Several layers of suavity reappear. (And just maybe, since he hasn't ruined everything, he can start a new campaign to make it especially interesting from a catching Beckett point of view)

He remembers something as they start off in the cruiser.

"Is your car wired for sound, too?" Beckett looks blank. "You know, like it's got cameras, does it record sound as well?"

"No. We're not making movies, so we don't need a soundtrack." She doesn't seem interested in why he's asking, dismissing it as more background. He has no intention of telling her why: he'll save that piece of information for a different day, when he's not so raw. When he's re-established his control of himself, and of this game. (_It's just a game, Rick._) It's not serious. It's just an affair, for as long as he wants her. Which is longer than a couple of nights. She'll stay as long as he wants, because he'll give her everything she wants. He doesn't hear his own words. He doesn't hear the critical difference from his other affairs. He doesn't understand that he's addicted himself before he's found out if he's addicted her.

The current tenant is not noticeably amused – rather _be_mused – by their request to walk through the scene, thinks Beckett. Still, this shouldn't take too long. It might even help. Sitting staring at the murder board last night and this morning hadn't. She'll take any dumb idea – and Castle is just full of dumb ideas, though a twinge of truth forces her to admit that even his dumbest ideas ignite her thoughts. Precinct stats say her team hasn't lost a jot of its success rate despite her annoying shadow.

Who is right back to his annoying self, examining her with an undercurrent that comes from knowledge, not imagination. It's almost a relief that he's back to normal. She doesn't want to deal with complications, or mysteries, outside the job. She wants something – someone – to keep her mind from burnout because she's dealing with too many complications and mysteries without ever breaking off or taking time out.

Walking the scene would be just about bearable, but he doesn't just want to walk it, he wants to role-play it. She hates role-play. It features in every compulsory training exercise and is dragged out every time she has to attend a soft skills (she spits at the idea) course. She doesn't need any more soft skills. She's the best detective in the Twelfth and what she needs is space to do her job. She certainly doesn't need a role-play to work this out. But her personal nemesis is forcing it on her.

"So you and I are married," he oozes charmingly. As if that would impress her. Especially as he follows up with that patented smug, _I-know-what-you-look-like-naked_ shit-eating grin. Her teeth clench, along with certain other areas of her anatomy. Midnight, moonless memory sweeps through her: tension starts to sizzle.

"Married!" No way. She'd be in Bedford Hills correctional facility in a heartbeat, doing life for Murder One. She just manages not to say so out loud. No point letting him know how much he gets to her – as if he doesn't already know. Which, following her physical reaction, irritates her even further.

"Relax, it's just pretend." Definitely pretend. He's not up for a third failure. He just wants to get her out of his system, however long that takes. She'll give him what he wants, he'll give her what she wants, and they'll be done. No-one will be making him react as if he were becoming that other man.

"I don't wanna pretend." She really sounds rattled. _Gotcha, Beckett. Again._

"Scared you'll like it?" And there it is. The swift flash of heat in her eyes. He'd bet his next royalty cheque she wouldn't want to be married, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want some more of what he's providing. If she's not hooked yet, it's not far away. She covers it up with some trademark snarkiness.

"Okay. If we're married, I wanna divorce." _If you're mine, Beckett – even if we're not married – you won't want to leave me._ Possessive impulses have his fingers twitching to pull her in, so that he has to hide his hands.

"Are you two like this all the time?" The tenant looks bewildered, and it only gets worse when they simultaneously turn on him.

"Yes." Seems like it's not just theory where their minds connect. That's …odd. Maybe it's a side-effect of proximity at work. He thinks, annoyed again, that it can't possibly be a side-effect of proximity elsewhere, since he can barely get her to stay long enough to enjoy each other, still less to stay where she should be, caught in his arms, in his bed. What? No. Affairs don't come to his sanctuary, still less stay over. They go home from some expensive hotel room. Or he goes home. Sleepovers are for grade-schoolers.

If he follows up his heated glances and builds on the electric connection of building theory and _solving it right_ by touching her, even by accident, she's going to brain him with the saucepan. Especially as he was right to force the role-play. (Ugh. The role-play and that he was right.) He's only trying to irritate her (and succeeding). But deep in the dark valleys of her mind a tempting, sultry whisper reverberates, murmuring that she could just take him home and show him how much she likes certain very limited aspects of his person. She's not scared she'd like them. She _knows_ she likes them. The physical ones. And the sable voice, susurrating seductive sentences in her ear which twist her higher without him even touching her. But the dead demand her duty and her diligence, and so she confines herself to a sashaying swing of her hips as they leave, thoroughly satisfied by the hiss of indrawn breath behind her. She won't be the only one left frantic and desperate and out of control. Her surrender has to be compelled, earned.

The mental current of trading theory and coming to a solution that is finally beginning to feel right, to fit the facts and the story, intervenes before Castle can formulate any plans involving all of Beckett, possession, and making her admit that she's his during the rest of the evening, after they've interrogated the potential, dead, killer's friend. He recognises, already, less than six weeks into knowing her, that she's on the trail of the real answer. The whole story. There is absolutely no possibility that she will be distracted – and, even if he didn't know that trying to distract her would be a short walk off a very high cliff, he's more than sufficiently interested in finding the real killer that he's almost as happy to help do that. There's more than one form of addiction to hook Beckett, and, it suddenly occurs to him, if her obsession is catching killers, and his mind – and their joint minds – catch killers better, then she could rapidly be led to addiction to the narcotic of his thinking. Or addiction, more likely, to the results of them thinking together. To wit, solved homicides. He should have seen that before, and if his mind hadn't been so completely blown by the dinner and the dress and the smoking hot body – by the purely physical - he might have. He'd found her fascinating, for far more reasons than just her body. If he's useful; if he helps her solve murders faster – _the dead shouldn't wait_, she'd said – then he won't even have to persuade her to stay. She'll want him around. All ways around. And because of that, he can go back to being patient, and controlled. He'll have plenty opportunity, late at night, after he's helped her think, to help her with ...other aspects of her overdriven personality.

He's flicking through the file, mostly because he's bored and hoping to persuade Beckett into something more interesting on the way home, when he spots an oddity. The original, useless, police officer had never interviewed the other tenant. Or if he had, he hadn't listed it. It's an incongruity, so he points it out. Amazingly, Beckett jumps on it. Seems it's a lead. Back to chasing it down.

From Castle's point of view, it's the wrong ending to the story. The story's true, literally and metaphorically, but this is not a happy ending. It's not making Beckett happy, either, and there's that strange flick of pain again as she points out that a cop doesn't get to decide how the story ends. But even then, their perpetrator doesn't admit anything, and secretly Castle hopes that he manages to avoid charges, or at least being found guilty. After he's lawyered up, there's nothing more to do.

Beckett's packing up, but the atmosphere has been different ever since they got out of the interrogation room. Curiosity isn't so much nipping at Castle's heels as ripping strips of bleeding flesh from his back. Beckett isn't angry, or irritated. She's pensive, with more than a hint of remembered misery. Castle waits, camouflaging his interest in this unexpected change in Beckett and failing utterly to recognise that he's stalking her story in a way he's been consciously telling himself he doesn't want or need to. The cool of late evening pressing in, the emptiness of the bullpen, the wrongness of the right answer to the instant case, all combine into a time and a place where confidences can be given without consideration of what might be revealed.

"By the way. It was my mother. Not my father." Even Beckett's voice is different, not the hard-edged snap of command and authority that he hears in every word by day. He consciously doesn't react to her statement, predator-still to entice more words from her. The spike in his chest is nothing other than the automatic sympathy that he'd feel for anyone whose parent had been murdered. And then he hears the rest of the story. No-one should have to go through that. Dead for no reason: no theft, no rape, no nothing. And no explanation. He'd been right, at dinner. The whole mosaic becomes clear. But it's not everything. Why she wears the incongruous man's watch is explained, as well. Her father, five years sober. Which means, Castle rapidly and invisibly calculates, five years drunk, when he was most needed. So, both the ring and the watch explained, one for the life she saved and one for the life she lost, in short minutes. He watches the shutters come back down as she brushes all her unexpected, undeserved confidences off with snark and sarcasm, and then is suddenly gone.

Castle is left in the silence of the darkened bullpen, thoughts prowling through his head. The strands of his obsession with getting Beckett back – getting Beckett at all, beyond brief encounters – are being drawn into a delicately patterned web of conclusions. He'd deduced a considerable amount of the story, and she'd confirmed it. Hmm. Physically, mentally, they match. But she won't recognise it, nor that he's more than some annoying pest, so she's reluctant to come to him – though when she does, it blazes. But, as he'd thought earlier, if she thinks he can be useful, she will come to him. Just like the other night. And when they've finished with mental usefulness, she'll give and he'll take precisely what he, and she, want.

And right there in the empty, darkened bullpen, he has another brilliant idea. What better way to be useful to Beckett than to solve her mother's murder? She couldn't, just as she couldn't herself solve this case. So, he'll surprise her with his ability. He'll apply the resources she can't – he has contacts everywhere – and present her with the solution. She'll see him then. Oh yes, she'll see him then. His intelligence and ability and how valuable he is, and then she'll realise how much she needs him. He'll have healed her wounds, too. Not that that's his primary reason, oh no. Not at all. But it wouldn't be a bad thing, either.

It doesn't occur to him in any way at all that there might be a reason Beckett isn't spending every hour on a case that affects her so fundamentally. All he sees - all he lets himself see - is that this is a way to prove that he's just as good a detective as she, or even better. And since solving crime is her obsession, her addiction, she'll do anything for the heroin high of solving faster, better, more often. He'll be her drug of choice, in the precinct and out.

He'll give this story a proper ending, and in the process she'll come to him, and then he'll have her, keep her, own her; for as long as he likes. He's Rick Castle, and he's going to have everything he wants. And he wants Detective Beckett.

In the cab home he's energised, electric: ideas sparking brightly in his brain. He likes things to be neatly tidied up. A chaotic early life has given him a certain appreciation for organised, neat endings. It's why he writes mysteries. There's always a clean, clear ending, no grey areas, no doubts. As soon as he's home he starts a new file on his storyboard: Beckett at the centre, and everything he already knows mind-mapped around it. It's pitifully little – he still doesn't even know her first name, for God's sake. All he knows is that it starts with a K. More extensive research is clearly needed. Starting with the case file. Ah. Shadowing Beckett and her team does not allow him free rein in the Twelfth. He's going to need some help, and he can't ask Beckett, obviously. Asking Montgomery doesn't feel like a sensible plan. But if he couches it correctly, one of Esposito or Ryan will be perfect. He leans on his desk for a long time, staring at the board and considering how, and which of them, to approach.

Ryan would undoubtedly be simpler. He's been the easiest to impress, still a little naïve, softer, easier to intimidate into silence if he has to, whether it's by casting off his pleasant, slightly goofy and definitely unthreatening public, precinct persona to reveal a little more of the truth of who he can really be, if required, or by threatening Ryan with the wrath of Beckett. Either will work. But. But from little shreds and patches of gossip, as he uncovers the back-stories of his subsidiary characters, Ryan's the new man, relatively speaking, on that team, and Castle doesn't get the impression that he's as …attuned… to Beckett, either in knowledge or in personality, as Esposito. Not that anyone is particularly close to Beckett: there's a definite distance between her and the rest that doesn't only arise from her being the boss. And now he thinks he knows why. Her history must eat away at her, all the time: she's not exactly talkative, so although he expects that all her co-workers know the outline of the story, he's perfectly certain that none of them know the detail. Nor, of course, does he. Yet.

So, Esposito. Castle still thinks there's a history there, and he also still thinks that it has absolutely nothing to do with sex. Almost six weeks of observation hasn't changed that conclusion at all. It's all wrong for sex (especially as he knows what's absolutely right for sex with Beckett). It's also all wrong for the type of pseudo-sibling relationship that he'd initially thought was likely, especially as that's almost the sort of relationship that Ryan and Esposito share. He thinks about it some more. He needs to nail this down, because if he doesn't work out the basic interaction between Beckett and Esposito he's not going to hit the right buttons on Espo to persuade him. Esposito is entirely _un_intimidatable.

Think about Esposito. Think about his history. He was in the Army, Special Forces, a sniper, and it shows. He's always cool, collected: pitch black humour, not particularly often. Bad guys offend him. Castle wonders briefly what his history was, before the Army. It might have been rather less on the side of the good guys than it clearly is now. Still. That's not relevant right at this time. Esposito vis-à-vis Beckett. Respect – mutually. But also Espo, who's the very epitome of Hispanic macho masculinity, is not the slightest bit bothered that he's answering to a woman. For a Special Forces sniper, which is, all best efforts of the US Army aside, hardly going to be the poster-child for gender diversity supportiveness, to be in that position argues an unusually high degree of respect for her abilities. Well. That's hardly surprising, is it? Even Castle had noticed her abilities, and her work ethic, in short order. But that's not everything, not by half: that could only ever be the starting point.

Ah. Right back at the beginning, he'd thought that Esposito was a little protective of Beckett. It's an odd sort of protectiveness, that sends her first through the door, first into danger – but Beckett wouldn't accept anything else. Personal safety is not something she appears to concern herself about, whether it's bad guys with guns behind doors or the late night streets of New York on her own. So how does Esposito protect Beckett, without her noticing and (he winces at the memory) raking his skin off for trying? He stops there. He knows this is the crux of the matter. If he can get this right… he'll have everything he needs.

Yet again, he fails to heed the warnings in his mind. He doesn't need to know this, they wail, siren-like. He's trying, when he never needs to try, expending massive effort on a woman who, okay, is seriously hot, but really doesn't seem to care. And he's digging into a story he hasn't any right at all to know. This is a dangerous obsession, they howl frantically; this is all completely out of control.

It's all far too late. Castle's obsession with Beckett has turned up another notch. It isn't just about her body, or even her mind, any more. He has to know, and finish, her story. It's the key to everything he wants.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers, in particular to ICCA and Dormeurduval, who don't log in but review pretty much every chapter, so can't be thanked personally. I really appreciate it._


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: This is my investigation**

It's not protection. That absence must be the heart of it. Or at least, no more protection than he would have provided to his Army comrades. That's it. That's the style of their relationship. It's front-line camaraderie: two people who, in very different ways, have seen more of the dark underbelly of the world than those around them. The difference is, though, that Esposito chose it, probably used it to give himself a better life. Beckett – didn't.

How to play it, then? Unusually, he has no ideas at all. It's also past midnight, and he remembers that he'd told Beckett he'd be there tomorrow. He needs to know what the post-case paperwork will look like, and he's managed to avoid that – it's likely to be extremely boring – till now. And while he's researching the paperwork, he might be able to find out the shift pattern. He needs to separate Esposito from Beckett and especially from Ryan. Ryan can't lie worth a damn to Beckett, and he can't keep a secret from her either.

Tucked comfortably into bed, Castle is very happy with the day. He drifts into sleep, content that his plan will succeed. His dreams begin fervidly: Beckett coming to him, wildcat passionate, open and responsive to whatever Castle wants; finally exhausted, tamed into the purring pet that will curl into him and never leave. But then they change. He's looking at a big man, in the shadows of the stage flats stacked against the wings, leaning down and talking to one of the ingénues. For no apparent reason the picture is menacing, freighted with intent. The big man traces a finger down the girl's cheek, and she flinches. He can't hear the conversation, hidden as he is, but the big man's animated, the girl resigned, slumped. When she leaves, she looks utterly defeated; the big man ugly in his triumph. And then he turns around and looks straight toward where Castle's concealed –

And he wakes, shaking and sweat-soaked. It never happened. He never saw that happen. It was just a story he made up, and got into trouble for telling, when he was young. Still, it takes him a long time to sleep again.

* * *

Flush with satisfaction at Beckett actually sharing something of herself, and forcibly putting away his nightmare in favour of the earlier dream, Castle decides that it's time he persuaded Beckett to accept him providing a drink that's a little more palatable than the coffee from the old machine. Addict her to his provision of decent coffee, perhaps. He'll satisfy her needs. But paperwork is excruciatingly boring. He watches for a while, asking as many questions as he needs to, till he's got as much as he can stand for now. He spends some time making sure that the charged tension between himself and Beckett doesn't drop to any material extent, with a combination of suggestive remarks and scorching glances whenever no-one else is looking. Then he starts to watch for an opportunity to speak to Esposito without either Beckett or Ryan overhearing. He finally finds it towards the end of the day, Beckett having temporarily disappeared in a cloud of barely suppressed annoyance and heat, without excuse or explanation, and Ryan having sloped off quietly as soon as his shift finished.

"Esposito, do you wanna have a beer tonight?"

"Whassa matter, Castle, you got no friends of your own?" But Espo's grinning at him.

"Nah. They're all off on vacation. You're the last resort." He grins back, perfectly at ease with the banter. Espo pretends to check his calendar.

"Seems I can fit you in. You buying?"

"Sure. Espo" – Esposito quirks an eyebrow. "Leave Beckett out of it, huh? I can live without her glaring at me and curdling my beer." Esposito sniggers.

They're in a bar Castle knows, not the precinct's style at all. The Old Haunt, where Castle – and many others – used to drink beer and write, in, depending on whether inspiration was flowing or not, wildly varying proportions.

"Why're ya buying me beers, Castle? Didn't think we'd got that far in our relationship." Espo smirks, evilly. Castle grins back, all boys and beer together.

"You're cute, Espo, but you're not really my type." Espo salutes the riposte with the beer bottle, and takes a healthy swig.

"Yeah, man, we all know what your type is. Big" – he makes a gesture that indicates exactly where _big_ fits in – "blondes. 'S all over page six." Castle grins some more, and thanks Christ that he's a damn good actor and that Esposito hasn't picked up on his driving need to get Beckett into bed. Until Espo opens his mouth again. "Or tall brunettes with a badge." Fuck. Time for some damage control.

"I only like brunettes who like me. Beckett thinks I'm a pain in the ass. I'm not into being shot." And time to point the playboy image. The last thing he needs is Esposito getting the impression that he's seriously chasing Beckett: that would ruin Castle's reputation. "She doesn't know what she's missing, though," he leers. Esposito looks very unimpressed. More helpfully, he also looks as if he believes that he, Castle, has not got it on with Beckett.

"Yeah, right. Me 'n Ryan – an' why ain't he here? – don't believe you're just about the research. Somethin' about bein' _detectives_, ya know? An' we _detect_ that you're sniffin' around after Beckett like an alleycat after fresh fish."

Castle makes a wide-armed gesture of _you-got-me_ flavour. "What can I say? She's seriously hot. But she's not interested."

"She hasn't shot ya yet." What? It occurs to Castle that Esposito had been remarkably easy to persuade to come out for a little male bonding. He'd not figured that Espo might have some things he wanted to say to him. Now he's really intrigued. He's not nervous, though. Esposito can undoubtedly take him in a fight, but Espo would find it a lot harder than he clearly expects. That might be interesting, if he needs to sharpen up.

"Huh?"

"She hasn't shot ya. If she hated you as much as she makes out she'da shot you already – accidentally, ya know. Or maimed you. We'da helped." That's a very casual way of letting Castle know the score. That says in cop-speak that if he hurts Beckett he'll be beaten up by Esposito and Ryan. Okay, message received and understood.

"Yeah, well. She's made it pretty clear she's not interested." Except when she's alone with him in either apartment, or out back of the book party. "Plenty other fish in the sea."

Esposito downs the rest of the bottle in one and reaches for another. Halfway down that, he starts again. "Y' know you might be a good thing for her, right?" Castle doesn't have to fake a stunned, dropped jaw expression of complete dumbfoundedness. While he's still searching for breath, Esposito barrels on, clearly intent on getting this out before he realises what he's doing and stops.

"She's at the job all the time. Barely goes home," – Castle nods: he's seen that – "comes out occasionally," – Castle hasn't seen that yet, in six weeks – "pals with Lanie Parrish. That's her life. We all know she's heading for burnout, but we can't do anything about it." Esposito's dark, intent eyes go cloudy for an instant. "Saw it in others, back in the day. Saw them sent home 'cause of it, too. Don't want that to happen. She's too good a cop." He flicks his gaze back up from the table and looks Castle squarely in the eyes. "Don't care how much of a pain you are, Writer-Boy, if you stop that. An' if you're annoying her, it's taking her mind off the dead." It's the perfect lead-in.

"Esposito. Beckett told me about her mom and dad, late Thursday, after we closed the case." Esposito's head jerks up, and he comes to swift, focused attention.

"She told _you_?" There's serious shock on Espo's face. "Man. It took her three _years_ to tell me, and that was only 'cause I found her asleep over the file in the break room. Shit." He downs the rest of the bottle, and Castle unobtrusively summons a bartender to order more. "They never caught him, ya know." Castle nods sharply. "She spent all her time searching, till the Captain kyboshed it. Dunno why. She don't talk about it." Esposito looks briefly menacing. "How come she told you? Didya ask her?" Castle's not intimidated, and shows it.

"No. She just came out with it. Pretended like it was no big deal."

"So why ya askin' me about it?" In the face of Esposito's suspicious glare and ever-increasing level of attempted intimidation, Castle decides on the highly unusual route of truth. For a given value of truth, that is. Esposito certainly doesn't need to know anything about his plans.

"She looked really upset. Well, for half a minute. Then she locked it all down again. Hell of a thing, losing her mother and her dad hitting the bottle like that. I don't wanna say something that trips her up. So I thought if I knew the story I could keep away from anything sensitive." Esposito, several beers to the good, looks faintly receptive. "I can't ask her now, can I? – that'd just be crass – so I thought if I could read the file I'd know what to avoid. And I reckoned you'd be the one to ask, 'cause you know her best." Faint receptivity overlays considerable scepticism. Esposito's focused sniper's stare is currently centred right between Castle's eyes. Castle drops another layer of his public, charming, man-about-town persona and gives Esposito a hard stare back. Espo raises an interested eyebrow.

"Not quite such a wuss as you pretend, Writer-Boy?" He looks Castle over, assessingly. "Ya hide that well." Just as Castle thinks they're about to start trading what weights they bench-press – which he reckons he'll lose, despite Espo being at least four inches shorter – he relapses into silence and beer.

"Why'dya really want this? Don't feed me any more of that shit you already tried. What's your real story, Writer-Boy?" Clearly Esposito is far from stupid. Equally clearly, for some as-yet-unknown-reason, almost certainly connected to the earlier part of their conversation, he's going to give Castle a shot at this.

"I've got some contacts, top-class pathologist, that sort of thing. They might see something the original team missed." Esposito looks dubious. "The sort of people the NYPD can't bring in."

"So? What's it to you?"

"The story isn't finished. I wanna finish it." He stops there. _Why_ he wants to finish it is not a matter he intends to discuss with anyone. He'll use it to show Beckett that he's plenty enough to match her. He doesn't admit to himself that he'd been stung by the pain in her eyes, that he wants to take it away, protect her from it. Esposito glares at him.

"You aren't gonna use it in this book, are ya?"

"No." That's thoroughly definite. And true. He doesn't put in that sort of raw emotion. It's not what sells. Well, it's not what his fan base expects, and if he did it once he'd have to do it every time. He's keeping enough out of this draft already, what with the private chapters, without adding emotion to the mix.

Esposito's still glaring. "I don't believe your reasons, man. Even if you do." Huh? He's perfectly sure of his reasons. Solve the case, prove his brilliance, win Beckett and keep her in his bed each night and be in the precinct with her each day. It'll add interest to his life, till he's bored again. Espo's still talking. He's said more this evening than Castle's heard him say in six weeks.

"But Beckett's got no life and that's 'causa this. I don't think you'll find squat that she couldn't, but no harm in you tryin'. Long as you never let on to anyone that I helped you. She's off shift tomorrow. Doesn't mean she won't turn up, but I'll get you into archives at some point." They clink bottles, deal done, mutual respect. Serious men's talk dissolves into more beer and pretty evenly matched pool games, till the bar closes.

Castle goes home well satisfied with his efforts. Tomorrow, he'll find out far more of the story. More, he's established a much closer connection with Esposito, who's a man who needs Castle's wealth, fame and contacts not at all. It feels unusually good to have a male acquaintance – friend, yes, a friend - who's not either competition or trying to use him. Not that anyone gets to use him any more: still, it's good not to have to be alert for it, to guard against it.

* * *

Esposito texts Castle early on Saturday, to say that Beckett's turned up in the precinct: he'll call when she goes home. That's not till after seven, and Esposito's long off shift when they surreptitiously meet at the back door to the precinct and sidle up the back stairs to Archives. Esposito tells Castle innumerable times that if he so much as whispers the word _files_ where Beckett can hear it, he will hurt, repeats his imprecations and injunctions to secrecy, and leaves Castle in the dim, dusty stacks of boxes, in a small puddle of light on the scarred, cheap desk that's all that's available in the musty silence.

Castle begins with his normal process in reading any new document, whether it's his own writing or someone else's: a full-speed read of the whole file, giving him the overview position and not a little of the detail; followed by a much slower study, taking the time to read every detail. He found that talent useful, back when he was still doing most of his own contract negotiation. Now he mainly finds it useful to frighten his agent and lawyers into realising that he reads, and retains the detail of, everything they send him. He might be casually sloppy about the arrangements for PR events and publishing dates, but when it comes to the legalities he locks that down cold.

It's horribly sketchy. Almost no evidence, and not much impression that particular effort had been put into the investigation. They'd had a brief look at Beckett and her father: left that as soon as their alibi checked out. Pathology showed nothing much about the wounds. No theft, no rape, no assault beyond the wounds that killed her. Some background information: she'd been a lawyer. Nothing on any of her caseload that the investigating officer had thought worth following up. Written off to cold cases, after not too long at all. In fact, rather quickly.

Castle leaves that to ferment in the back of his mind for a while, and reads the area of main interest again. Beckett. Katherine. Finally, her first name. Katherine. Or Kate, perhaps? Then, she was 19, at Stanford, pre-law with a minor in Russian. Accelerated entry. Hmm. _Very_ intelligent. Semester in Kiev – so well-travelled, potentially. The whole world in front of her, and it was all taken away. Ah. That's what she'd said in the restaurant. No wonder it had been off-key. Those kids hadn't been much younger than she had been. And no wonder she'd been rocked when he'd spun her story: he'd been far too close to truth for comfort. Well, now he'll find her an answer, a proper ending to this story. He thinks there are several areas that don't seem to have got the attention they deserve, starting with the pathology report. He can have that re-investigated relatively easily. Dr Murray will be only too happy to have an intellectual problem to play with, and he'll keep it quiet. It might take him a little while, but there isn't a better pathologist in New York.

He prowls quietly to the copier, keeping a wary eye out for anyone else, and is pleasantly surprised that it doesn't require a code, or cash, to work. He rapidly copies the whole file – he can't remove it: there's no telling when Beckett, or someone told to perform a cold case review, might want it – and slips out the precinct as unobserved as when he came in.

When he reaches home he manages to deposit his copy file in his study without anyone noticing, and starts to add the pitifully thin extra information to his storyboard. He'll leave that for now; let it settle, and cuddle close the new information about Beckett. It makes him feel better about how hard he needs to work to keep up with her, if she was clever enough to gain accelerated entry to Stanford. He stares into space for a while, mind idle, roaming randomly, but always centred around Beckett. Body and brains, in one beautiful, bad-ass package; shortly to be wrapped, stamped, addressed and delivered to him.

* * *

Beckett can't imagine what she was doing, talking about her past to Castle, of all people. She never opens up like that: it must have been the effect of the case. She can't imagine, either, that it was of any interest to him. At least he was polite enough to pretend to listen, and not to make any of his smart comments. He doesn't need to know it, and her history isn't relevant whether or not she wants to take up the open offer of a red-hot affair. In fact, it would be far better if it was ignored entirely, by both of them. She can't decide what she wants: she knows she needs to put the job aside, but good as an affair would be, she isn't sure if it will help. Too much chance of distraction from her primary purpose, perhaps, if she weren't very careful. But then again, she doesn't _like_ Castle, he's just very, very good in bed. So maybe he wouldn't distract her. Her mind changes from one day, even from one hour, to the next: depending on her mood.

On Friday she acts as if she'd never said anything, retreating behind the hard shell of Detective Beckett and finding that she's more annoyed than she had been for a few days by Castle's innuendos and heated gaze; by his hand on her back every time he allows her to precede him through a door or into the elevator, which is every time she goes through a door or into the elevator; that he's standing or sitting closer than she'd like; (she tells herself that she'd _like_ him to be sitting outside the front door of the precinct) and - ah-ha.

She's beginning to recognise a pattern here. He's deliberately stoking her annoyance, because every time she's lost her temper with him since he goaded her into sparring she's ended up so fired up that anger has turned into sex, or near enough. Hmm. Clever tactics, Castle, and a very accurate analysis of how she rolls and what turns her on initially – but only effective if she didn't notice. And now she has. Not, of course, that she didn't consent, nor was it … unenjoyable. Still, she doesn't have to let him carry on with it. She smiles sharply to herself, and is more than a little pleased to see a swift flick of uncertainty on Castle's face. _Time for a little payback, Castle. How much will it take to turn you into an out-of-control mess?_ Oh yes. She knows how to do that. A little extra swing and sashay, the quick, enticing peek from under her eyelashes, the seductive bite on her lip – she hasn't missed how he reacts to that – and the bedroom look that says _I know just what you want and I want it too. _He'll be wrecked in two days. In three, he'll just reach out and take it. And she'll have won, all ways up, (she thinks about _up_, and wriggles slightly) because she'll be in control. Until she doesn't want to be any more. She'll dance on the razor blade's edge and never cut herself.

But not today. She's still recovering, papering over her admissions, and to keep this in manageable territory she needs to have locked those back down and away. No chance of revealing anything. Anyway, if she wants a blazingly hot affair to keep her from burnout, then she'd better keep her history out of it. It certainly hadn't helped last time: and she doesn't need to be looked at as if she can't cope, as if she's the victim. She's put the worst of it behind her, climbed out the pit she'd dived right into, with the help of a good therapist and the knowledge that her focus on that one case, however crucial to her, reduced her focus on the others. Other people's dead demand she gives the same amount, the same degree, of care she would to her own. Their dead can't wait: they shouldn't have to.

She forces herself to go to the gym to spar, overcoming the hard flex of the memory of sparring with Castle as part of her strategy to get back on top of her game. When she returns everyone's gone, and she can try to deal with some more of the never-ending paperwork and unfinished case load without interruption or distraction. She'll still have to put in some time tomorrow, but she hadn't any plans anyway. It's not as if she's got a hobby, or a social life.

It's not as if she cares.

* * *

_thank you to all reviewers. It really helps me to write if I know what readers like and what they don't. Please, if you read, at least think about telling me your thoughts. To those who do, guests or logged in, I really, really appreciate the time you take to tell me._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: Let's dance**

After a couple of days without a new body and consequently no good reason to go to the precinct, and with no real inspiration, at least for the publishable document, Castle is bored and frustrated, so he shows up in the precinct anyway to interrogate Beckett about every infinitesimally tiny detail of procedure, cold case review, the ME's office and actions and the hierarchy of command and 1PP. He can't say that he's interested in it in the abstract, but he is very interested in the application to the particular. He wants to know what should be done on a case - such as might be Johanna Beckett's case – if it were investigated properly. And of course along the way he can get up close to Beckett, who seems to be simultaneously blocking him out and inviting him in. His well-developed predatory instincts are twitching, and the electric tension is rising with every hour.

He's well aware she's no naïve innocent: he's sure her walk, her demeanour, and the aura she's cloaked around herself, are not in any way accidental or unconscious. Every time she moves there's sensual purpose behind it; every time she looks up through her lashes at him it's an invitation, an allurement. She walks with a swaying stride that's only one step off a catwalk, and every click of her heels says _take me if you dare_. He knows, would know even if she wasn't wearing almost-revealing open-necked button-downs, that she's revelling in the silky slither of bad-girl underwear, and just thinking about what that underwear might be, and what it has already been, is stretching the limit of his control. He knows she's playing him, and even though he knows he shouldn't react, he can't step back from the line. He can't take his eyes off her legs when she sits, when the fabric of her dress pants pulls over her thigh when she crosses her legs. She'd worn stockings, that hot hard night. The memory lashes at his mind. His fingers curl against his own leg to stop himself running them over hers to find out if she's wearing them now.

She's wound him so tightly, in just one day, that he can barely focus on the other part of her attitude. She's trailing sex in front of him, but behind that she's as barricaded as the day he walked in. More so, in fact, because she's exuding a kind of cool satisfaction rather than the irritation and anger he'd come to expect. He needs to work out what's changed: what's stopped her descent into his trap. But when she leans over the keyboard at that same precisely judged angle to make him think he can see everything and actually show nothing at all he can't think.

He leaves early.

He can't stay. He can't stand watching her tease and tantalise and not just take her. He can't hold on to his control and his plan any longer and the only alternative to leaving is to push her into an interrogation room and cross-question her body with his own until she admits her provocation, her aiding and abetting of his arousal. For the first time in a few days, he needs to turn to the private chapters of his book and his fictional Detective.

It doesn't fit into the structure, but then again his private chapters don't need to have a structure, they're just a way of writing out his frustration.

Rook's annoyed. Nikki's shut him out, locked herself off, ever since she'd been soft in his arms. She's made absolutely sure any hint of a different personality doesn't happen again, been her usual spiky, irritated self: claimed work as an excuse for that, and tiredness as an excuse for not seeing him otherwise. So, sufficiently late one night that he's almost sure she'll have left the bullpen, he picks up a bottle of good wine to serve as an introduction and is shortly found tapping on her apartment door.

Her greeting is …neutral, at best: pleasant, but cool, thanking him for the wine, an uninflected offer of a glass to share it. He accepts, of course. He can hardly solve this aspect of her mystery if he leaves again, and besides, the wine should be excellent. He misses her trademark irritation, and its swift mutation into heat when they're away from the job. He misses more the slight moves to openness, to letting him see into her life.

Castle stops typing at that. Seems that his private chapters aren't just about relieving his sexual frustration. Seems like his subconscious thoughts, expressed through his fingertips, aren't wholly aligned with what he actually wants. He's sure he doesn't care about Beckett's life. He only cares about solving the mystery so she'll … appreciate… him. Anyway. This is fiction. He can scribble it out and then forget about it; get everything back on track and stay in control of himself.

Rook sits down close to Nikki and slings a muscular arm unsubtly along the couch back behind her. She doesn't object, but then again she doesn't snuggle in either. He might as well be her brother, if she had one. That's a new level of blocking off. Not irritated, not aroused, not even physically close. When she puts her wine glass down he moves his arm around her and tugs until she's properly tucked against him. Again, she doesn't object, but doesn't make any move to get closer. Now he's more annoyed.

"What's with you today?"

"Huh?" She doesn't sound as if she's paying much attention. He turns her into him.

"What's up? You've barely looked at me, still less spoken, since I got here. What's your problem?"

"Nothing. 'S been a busy week, and I'm tired." Rook makes a conscious effort to produce his lazy, seductive smile.

"Then c'mere, and let me make it better. C'mon. You know I'm a very comfortable pillow." Nikki blinks, as if she's shaking out her thoughts, and suddenly wriggles in. Rook hoists her on to his lap and arranges her comfortably. "That's better. Much more friendly." Nikki sniggers.

"That what the cool kids call it?" She seems to have returned to something like normal. Rook takes full advantage of it to slide his hand insinuatingly over to rest on her waist, sketching small patterns on her clothes. But he doesn't get the feeling that she's really any closer than she has been, even if she's decided that it's okay to be physical. He pushes his luck and traces a slow fingertip down her neck and into the vee of her shirt, undoes the top button and plays with it a little, waiting to see what she'll do. He's too uncertain of her mood today to push harder, to persuade her in the way she likes, as he's often done, knowing that she'll tell him fast enough if it's unwelcome.

Castle stops again. This isn't helping him. It's neither realistic in terms of Nikki and Rook nor in terms of how Beckett's behaving. He can't even write well right now. He deletes it all and decides on a drink instead. Conveniently, the whiskey and a glass are right there. He pours a moderate measure – getting drunk isn't going to improve either this evening or tomorrow morning any – and sips it slowly, trying to reorder his thoughts away from Nikki/Rook and back towards Beckett. Now he's not actually in her presence he has enough blood circulating in his brain to think.

She's suddenly oozing allure: slinking along an extremely careful line in the precinct between his hyper-awareness of her and the boys not noticing; prowling through the steppes of sexuality as soon as they're alone. Exactly how she hasn't previously behaved. But it's very cool, for something that's so hot. There's no … unleashed passion, no fiery personality, in it. It doesn't seem like she's prepared to share her deeper feelings, just her body. Hmm. Well. That's certainly what he usually likes. Used to like. Still likes. He only needs to solve the mystery to make sure she doesn't quit before he's ready: he can only ensure that she doesn't if she's entirely impressed by him. Wealth doesn't interest her – that's quite a relief: an unusual difference – but intelligence and strength do. He's proved his strength. Now to prove his intelligence.

He's fairly certain she's trying to keep control of the game. Well, why would he be surprised by that? With one very important exception, she needs to be in control all the time. In which case she's trying to push his buttons – and succeeding. Oh _hell_, is she succeeding. Question is, is he going to let her? A better question is, can he stop her? And the best question of all is, does he want to? To the last two, the answer is undoubtedly _No_. To the first – well, that's a different matter.

In fact, it might just play wholly into his hands. No harm in letting Beckett think that she's in charge of the playground, if it's going to give him what he's wanted. Especially when it means, must mean, that he's succeeded in addicting her in at least one way. And when she sees how clever he is, when he's made it better for her, she'll be impressed and want him. Everywhere. He'll fill the empty space where a partner should be in the precinct, and the empty space in her bed. Though he expects that he'll need to …persuade… her a little. Enjoyably. She'll be passionate, under his persuasion. Oh yes. She might think that she's in control of this rapidly developing affair, but the only person who's going to be in charge, in bed or out of it, is him. He'll decide what they do, he'll decide how long it lasts. He'll decide how much he needs to know about her. (Everything. He needs to know everything.) And in the meantime he's going to take her up on her offer. But he's going to fight back first. He's not going to be reduced to a puddled pool of arousal without making damn sure that he's pushing her buttons too.

He sips his whiskey again and contemplates the following day. She's playing _you can look but you can't touch_. At least, he thinks so. He smiles slowly, edgily. The last time she'd played that game... they'd ended up in her bed. Because he'd touched: because she'd wanted him to touch. If she's going to issue invitations, she can hardly complain when they're accepted. He'll attend her private party.

* * *

Beckett reaches the precinct early next morning confident of her ability both to leave Castle a mindless mess and to preserve her own barriers whilst - just for once – having something, and someone, that she simply, uncomplicatedly and purely sexually wants. No more than that. At least, this morning she's decided she wants it. She's dressed to project her normal cool, professional image. She never, ever drops her focus on the cases.

But that doesn't mean that she can't have some confidential pleasure along the way. Underneath, she's pleased herself: soft satin and flattering cut: lingerie that would, if she so pleased, drive men (and one very particular man) wild. If he's going to spend his time making it clear that he wants to see what's under her outerwear, with those scorching invitations to carry on where they left off on any of the previous occasions, then she can spend her time making it very subtly clear that she's wearing something worth looking at. It'll show in the flow and sway of every movement: the fractional slowdown in her stride that turns it from sharp to sensual. She's wholly comfortable in her own skin and sexuality; perfectly attuned to her own body; perfectly sure, after yesterday – she hadn't missed his heat nor his early departure – that everything is proceeding according to her plan.

Without Beckett really noticing the change in her thinking, she's begun to find Castle almost useful, and thus notice when he's not there. Not miss him. Definitely not. And he's still enormously irritating. But he is useful. Her simmering irritation and flaring anger hasn't damped her desire, but increased it: still, knowing that she's comfortably in control of the game right now gives her a calm, cool overlay; coating the aspects of her life that she's tried to put behind her; silently sliding into place above her anger so that fury doesn't force her reactions. She's not doing this casually, or recklessly, but eyes wide open. She's prepared to give up control in bed, but absolutely nowhere else.

Her intentions for the day begin to be frustrated as soon as Castle arrives. Much to her suppressed annoyance, he starts with a slow, top-to-bottom evaluation that should have incinerated her clothes: intent and focused enough that Beckett feels like a specimen pinned to a board. When he's finished, he's developed a slow, lazy, knowing smile that makes it completely clear, without a hitch in his breath, that he wants to find out if his suppositions are correct. He's not making any effort at all to tone down the level of tension, magnetism and slight intimidation that he's projecting; nor any effort to stop encroaching on a rather larger area of space than usual. In fact, Beckett thinks, he's consciously projecting a considerable degree of predatory alpha masculinity. But along with the anger goes the familiar frisson down her spine, reminding her how she'd been caught in, held down. Frisson shifts to full-on shiver when Castle leans in towards her and produces a voice that shouldn't be permitted outside a bedroom: several notes deeper and softer than normal; wrapping silk shackles around her and quite deliberately invoking the memory of darkly pleasurable rough dirty sex and hard dominance. Fortunately it also isn't audible more than six inches away.

"Something up, Beckett?" She appears completely unconscious of his meaning. It's completely faked. She then improves the moment by raising one enquiring eyebrow.

"What d'you mean?" His voice drops further.

"You seem a little less… hmm… buttoned-up than usual." The direction of his gaze, some distance below her face, says considerably more than the words. Beckett doesn't fall for the implication. She doesn't even twitch an eye downwards.

"Ever hopeful, Castle." She leans forward herself, and watches him completely fail not to follow the vee of her shirt. She smirks nastily. "Eyes up here, Castle."

He complies, none too quickly, and then returns to the lazy grin. "Pretty," he says, in the same deep drawl. It's perfectly clear that he doesn't mean the china elephants on her desk that he's picked up to play with. Beckett splutters, infuriated despite her good resolutions to keep control. Inside, she's flipping between wanting and not wanting; do or don't; and her own indecisiveness is not improving her mood.

Castle decides to quit while he's ahead. Or at least on level terms. He's content that Beckett isn't going to have it all her own way, today, and it's still early. Time for another tack. He wanders into the break room and concocts two coffees. From one addiction to another. He'll go back to the primary addiction later. When he reappears Beckett is fathoms deep in a pile of paper which had definitely not been on her desk five minutes earlier, and concentrating fiercely. He puts a mug comfortably within her reach and drifts off to ask Ryan and Esposito some technical details about fitness levels, shooting qualifications, and any other matters he can think of that will keep him out of range and able to watch unobtrusively to see if Beckett realises what's happened. He's quite unreasonably triumphant when she automatically picks up the mug and downs most of it in one go. He's even more so when she doesn't notice what she's done and drinks the rest. It's pathetically petty to be so pleased that he's one up, he thinks, and doesn't care. He refills it twice, and she doesn't even notice, just drinks it.

Beckett resurfaces from the sea of paper considerably later and finds that it's lunchtime. Since there's been no body, she's not entirely sure why Castle's still there, except to annoy her, but the relentless flow of paper has returned her to coolness. A swift assessment tells her that the boys have already got lunch – they probably asked her, but she hadn't heard. Castle's out of sight. Perfect. She'll go out and try to think. She doesn't appreciate her own indecision: it makes her teeth itch. She's at the elevator in instants. Paperwork days at least give her the opportunity to have a break at lunch. When it's a new case she tends to forget unless reminded. Just as well the boys' stomachs remind them regularly, and they remind her.

Just as she steps into the elevator the hairs on the back of her neck tell her that Castle's slipped in behind her.

"Sneaking off without me? How unkind, Beckett. Don't you want me?"

"I want my lunch," she snips.

"That's nice. Let's have lunch together." She doesn't need to look at him to know that he's grinning.

"No. Thank you." It's an effort, already, to preserve calmness and civility. She'd thought she could find a period of peace, a chance to regroup and plan the afternoon's strategy; and Castle's disruptive, looming presence is not required. As he follows her out the elevator, she puts a swing in her step and feels rather than hears the cadence of his stride and breathing shift. She ignores the palm over her back when he opens the door for her and ushers her out. She doesn't ignore it when he doesn't remove it.

"Hands off, Castle."

"You didn't say that the other night," he purrs softly into her ear. "But have it your way." And he takes his hand away. She still feels it heating her flesh, which does not cool her temper. "Where are we going for lunch?"

"_We_ are not going anywhere," Beckett snaps, good intentions and calm fracturing. "_I_ am getting my lunch and going back to work. _You_ can do what you like."

"Anything I like?" The purr is more predatory. "Well now, Detective, why don't we just talk about that. We could talk about how we interact." Her step falters. "As a team, of course. What did you think I meant?" Now he sounds completely innocent.

"You can do what you like. Alone. I am getting my lunch. Alone." Her irritation is back in full.

"That's not very sociable." His tone makes it perfectly, infuriatingly clear what he means by _sociable_. She's just about to round on him when she abruptly realises that he's doing it again – trying (and succeeding) to rile her so that she gets angry and loses control of the situation. Well, not this time. She crams down her annoyance and changes tack completely.

"You have no idea how sociable I might be." She stops, leans against the nearest wall, looks him up and down with the same leisurely, undressing, assessing, heated examination that he's been using on her. "With the right person." She moves off again, catwalk prowl in full swing. His gaze is blazing down her back. She doesn't even need to see him to know that he can't take his eyes off her, and the edge that gives her is fully reflected in her movements.

Castle's losing his calm of a moment previously almost as fast as Beckett is re-establishing hers. She's managed to flick him on the raw with her last comment – the only right person for Beckett is going to be _him_ - and that, combined with his general irritation that she's put up a barrier again just when she'd opened up a little, that he's not managing to control the game, and that he's deeply aroused and wholly frustrated by her behaviour; is removing his normal layers of sophisticated suavity as fast as snow melts in spring. He catches up with her again, and consciously controls himself.

"Why don't we find out? We had such a pleasant date last time, let's do it again."

"That was _not_ a date." She's annoyed again. It hadn't been a date.

"Let's see now. I took you out to dinner, you dressed up," – his eyes flare for a moment as he remembers how she'd dressed up – "I escorted you home. Oh yes, and I kissed you." And the rest. "So how was that not a date?"

Beckett stops and turns full on to him. "Because you tricked me into going out to dinner with you. So it wasn't a date."

"You enjoyed it, though," Castle says smugly.

"Did not."

"Liar."

"Am not."

"Are too. You liked it when I… hm… kissed you. You said so."

"Did not." Castle raises disbelieving eyebrows and smiles in the most infuriatingly self-satisfied way he can manage.

"You did. But if you're not sure, we should try it again." He slides up close beside her. "But not in the middle of the street at lunchtime. I'd be embarrassed." Beckett splutters, lost for words. "So I'll arrange for dinner somewhere quiet tonight. You won't even have to dress up. See you later." And he walks off before Beckett has a chance to object. Only the fact that she's in the middle of Manhattan and she is an adult stops her giving in to the temptation to indulge in the sort of incandescent tirade that normally comes from a spoilt two year old. It would certainly make her feel better.

But then she stops to think. Castle can arrange whatever he likes, but he'll have to find her first. And nothing says she has to make it easy for him. He should have asked her. Not told her. She's not going to be pushed around by an arrogant playboy. She's flipped back from _do_ to _don't_, because she's not going to be taken for granted.

She taps out a completely untruthful text that simply says _I'm busy tonight._

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers, guest and logged in. Your thoughts really help. Please keep letting me know._


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Are you ready for this?**

"Yo, Beckett," Esposito calls when she returns. "Whatcha done with your shadow? Finally shoot him?"

She smiles snarkily. " Nah. Not worth the jail time. He went off. If it weren't for you two, I'd have perfect peace all afternoon." She sighs theatrically. "Chance would be a fine thing." The boys harrumph. Ryan looks wounded.

"We know you'd miss us." Beckett looks dubious. Esposito chimes in.

"Just like you'd miss Writer-Boy." Beckett emits a strangulated squawk. "Can't fool us, Beckett. You even let him make you coffee, all morning. Must be love." She chokes.

"Not likely. You been reading romantic novels again, Espo?" She's scrabbling for some game. "Or maybe you've been smoking something."

"You know I don't do that shit. Look at your desk. You drank his coffee. It's sorta sweet." Espo is smirking evilly. Beckett looks at her desk and finally processes that her entire morning's coffee intake had come from a mug not a paper cup. How had she not noticed that? No wonder Castle was so smug at lunch time.

"Didn't work, did it? Never even noticed it wasn't the machine." It's the boys' turn to look disbelieving. Possibly fortunately, Montgomery chooses that moment to emerge from his office and enquires smoothly whether he had mysteriously missed a memo about a new half-day vacation or – his tone sharpens – whether anyone is planning to do any work this afternoon. Conversation abruptly ceases and five seconds later all that's audible is the shuffle and swish of paper and the tick-tack of keyboards.

At the end of her shift Beckett exits unusually quickly, without paying attention to the quiet beep of her phone. She doesn't go home, that's far too simple. She's moderately certain that Castle will try first the bullpen and then her apartment. She won't be at either: she'll be busy. Instead she heads for the morgue, and specifically Lanie's office. She actually finds Lanie leaning over a corpse in the lab.

"Hey, Lanie."

"Who are you?" Beckett looks a little guilty. Lanie glares fiercely. "You haven't been round my way 'less there's been a body in weeks. What's been keeping you so busy, girlfriend?" Lanie wiggles her eyebrows and acquires a salacious smile. "Or should I ask who? Have you finally come to your senses and started having some fun?"

Beckett is absolutely certain she hasn't given away a single thing. Not one eyelash flickers. Lanie looks at her very, very hard. Beckett looks back completely nonchalantly. Lanie continues. So does Beckett. Finally Lanie starts to laugh.

"Have it your own way, then. Why're you here?"

"Paperwork got boring, so I thought I'd come by. Wanna go for a quick drink?" Lanie produces a second version of the hard stare.

"What's up?"

"Huh?"

"You're doing something spontaneous." Beckett looks surprised. Lanie carries on. "You never do anything without planning it. So how come you're down here without even a call first, wanting to go out?"

Beckett avoids the question in favour of a different answer. "Do you wanna come out or not, Lanie?" Lanie's not fooled.

"Sure I do. Let's go. And on the way you can tell me what's going on." She leers hopefully. "You can tell me all about your Writer-Boy. That man is cute." Cute is not the word Beckett would have thought of first. _Infuriating_ would have been high up the list. (_Hot_ would have been right up there too, says an annoying little voice in her head.)

"He's not _my_ Writer-Boy. He's a pain in the ass. You can have him."

Lanie starts to clear up and pack away. "Where d'you want to go, Kate? Bar? Restaurant? Club?"

"Bar. Let's go to the Village. We can pick when we get there."

Lanie finishes putting her instruments away and heads for her coat. "I know," she says, "let's go to the Bleeker Street Bar. Good drinks, fast food."

"Okay."

It being a week night, the bar is not particularly busy, and it's easy for them to find a table and start on a glass of wine. Some desultory gossip passes the time, and the wine, till Lanie gets round to what she really wants to know.

"Right, girlfriend, spill. What's going on between you and Castle?"

"Nothing."

"Ri..ight. Nothing. Izzat why the air sizzles like fat on a hot skillet every time you're in the same room? Because you are not fooling anyone with that line."

"Nothing." Beckett gulps a large mouthful of wine and preserves a bland expression.

"You're an idiot." Lanie is disgusted. "He's hot, he's really interested, and he'd suit you down to the ground – a lot better than your last boyfriend – and you won't even look at him. What is wrong with you?"

"Don't like him," Beckett mutters sulkily. "He's a spoilt playboy."

"You forgot hot. I've seen you checking him out." Beckett chokes on her wine.

"You have _not_." Much to her relief – lying to Lanie is always, eventually, a losing game – her phone rings. It's Esposito.

"Beckett."

"Beckett. Where are you?"

"Why? You got a body?"

"Naw. But Castle just came by. Didn't say anything, but I think he's looking for you. He didn't look happy when you weren't here."

"I'm with Lanie. Girls' night. You got a problem with that?"

"Nah, not me. C'n me and Ryan come along?"

"Not unless you're going to put on a dress and make-up and be girls for the evening."

"Don't think so. Wouldn't want to show you up. Seeya." Click.

Lanie's looking interested. "What's all that about?"

"Espo. Ryan. Trying to muscle in."

"Then why are you suddenly looking like the cat who got the cream? What's going on?" Beckett simply smiles gently, looking very feline indeed, and says nothing. She's thoroughly satisfied that Castle, having made the mistake, again, of _telling_ - rather than _asking - _her what would happen is discovering the error of his ways. It sounds like he's hunting for her. She idly checks her phone and notices that he'd texted, a while ago. It's fairly short. _Dinner at Po, 31 Cornelia St, 7.00._ Really? Like she'll just toddle along like a good little obedient girl because he says so? It's not even an invitation, let alone polite. It's an order. And she already told him she was busy. No way. She puts her phone back down, leans back, and takes another soothing sip of wine, savouring the taste.

She doesn't notice that Lanie's read the text.

"Thought you said there's nothing between you and Writer-Boy?"

" 'Sright."

"Nothing as in nothing but a condom?" Beckett spits her wine all over the table.

"What the _hell_, Lanie?" she splutters when she recovers her breath. Lanie grins evilly.

"Writer-Boy invites you out to dinner and you don't even tell your best friend? You gotta share, Kate. Spill it."

"So I don't wanna go. I told him I wasn't going."

"No?"

"No." Lanie's face is shouting _Liar_ louder than a campaign trail loudspeaker van.

"You are dumb. Seriously, you are completely dumb. Why do you do this? I can't remember the last time you went out with anyone that wasn't Ryan, Esposito and me. You need some fun." Realisation seeps into Lanie's face.

"And you haven't answered my question yet, apart from wasting good wine on the table. I didn't hear a _no_."

Beckett hates it when Lanie starts investigating. She's worse than a Rottweiler, once she gets her teeth into something. Sometimes Beckett wonders why Lanie isn't in the bullpen, rather than the morgue. She'd be a better detective than a lot of others.

"You did, didn't you? You got it on with Writer-Boy." Lanie looks like she's about to get up and do a dance of triumph.

Beckett tries something that almost never works – barefaced lying. "No." It's greeted with extreme scepticism.

"I don't believe you. But even if you haven't yet you've thought really, really hard about it." She looks mischievous. "I think you should go to dinner. And then I think you should jump his bones."

"I thought you were my friend, not a dating agency."

"Sure I'm your friend. As your friend I'm telling you to have a good time. It'll dry up if you don't use it." Beckett makes a revolted face. "Anyway. You're too late to cancel. You're not mean enough to stand him up." She looks at her watch. It's 6.55, and somehow most of the wine is already missing. Oh. Lanie's right. Much as she would love to do so, she's never been that nasty in her life and she isn't going to stoop to that level now. No matter how satisfying. She won't be that woman. She drains her glass.

"I'm going. But I don't want advice on my love life." There's a very rude noise from opposite.

"If you had a love life – or even a sex life – to advise on it would be an improvement. You're just sulking 'cause you know I'm right."

"You're not. Even if I have to go to dinner I'm not getting it on with Castle." She stands to leave, and wobbles slightly. Too much wine, too fast, on top of too little food. She'd better go. The sooner dinner starts, the sooner it will be done. Dinner with sexy bad boys when she's already buzzed is not going to be one of her best ideas. She needs to stay in some sort of control of this and that doesn't mean letting him dictate where they're going. In any sense of the meaning. She'll get a cab home, as soon as dinner's done.

Lanie looks after her friend as she leaves. She's a touch worried about her. Kate's downed most of the bottle without really noticing, which is absolutely not her usual behaviour, even if she has the hardest head in the bullpen. She's not normally rude, either. At least not without it being deliberate, and in humour. This would have been just mean. She wonders if she should stir the pot a little, and then thinks better of it. Though she'll keep that under review. If she should just happen to run into Castle, however…

* * *

Castle hadn't paid much attention to Beckett's refusal. He'd assumed that she was simply being her normal, contrary, irritated self; and relied on the rest of her current behaviour to support his view that she'd come for dinner. And after that, he could escort her home and kiss her and… et cetera. Thinking too much about … et cetera… leaves him contemplating actions that, whilst wholly satisfying, are just a little too far from civilised. At least for the early afternoon. But Beckett's been playing _look but don't touch_ for two days, and every single movement has been a come-on, so Castle's pretty sure that she'll come out to play with him. He's also sure that she'll tease him first, dragging out her surrender. He smiles darkly, only too ready to give her what she wants. Eventually. He's got some ideas for teasing her, too, till she does surrender.

He texts her brief details, so sure she's coming that he doesn't really take any care to consider what happened the last time he tried to tell her to do something, nor the implication of her initial refusal. He's addicted her, he's certain of it, so she'll come, because he wants her to, and she wants it, too. But it would be polite to go to pick her up. Of course, it will also ensure that she actually does come out to dinner.

A slight chill runs over him when Esposito tells him Beckett left straight after the end of her shift – at five p.m. She never leaves at end of shift. It would be amazing if she's ever left before seven p.m. Or nine. He calls on his acting ability and wanders off, claiming he'd wanted to ask some questions and if Beckett's not there he can't get answers. The instant he gets out of view he lets the act drop. He gets a cab to Beckett's apartment, but it doesn't take much persuasion and bonhomie – and a tip - for the doorman to tell him that Beckett hasn't been back.

About that point he starts to think that he might have mis-stepped. And since he doesn't like the feeling of discomfort that that thought brings, (_that was a bad idea, Rick. Why'd you think I'd like that_) he covers it up with irritation. She's playing with him, and she'll find out that that's only a good idea if he gets to play too. Still, she hasn't answered his text, and her manners will – surely? – stop her standing him up in quite such a publicly humiliating way. He wishes he were certain of that. The more he hasn't found her, and the longer she hasn't replied, the more he thinks that he's got something wrong. It abruptly dawns on him that he'd not actually asked Beckett anything. He'd told her, and assumed. Oh. Oh shit. He did that before, didn't he? And it hadn't ended well – ended with him sitting on his own in the bullpen without so much as a word of goodbye. He'd better be at the restaurant early, because he is absolutely certain that if he is not there sitting down at 7 Beckett will arrive, take one look, see he's not there, and leave. If she comes at all.

He's sitting at the table, acting cool, at five to. He realises, with some considerable annoyance attached to the insight, that he hasn't been this nervous about a date – it _is_ a date, whatever Beckett says – since he was twenty. He doesn't like the feeling at all. No-one has ever stood him up in his whole adult life. It just does not happen to him. He's not going to let it happen to him. If she doesn't show up he'll find her.

But he is appalled to notice just how relieved he is when Beckett walks through the door a few minutes late. Fortunately by the time the staff take her coat he's recovered.

Beckett may be a bit buzzed, but she's not so buzzed that she doesn't notice the flash of relief across Castle's face when he sees her, even if it's gone by the time he stands up to greet her. She doesn't feel like thinking about that right now: she'll save it for later. But… if he's relieved she's shown up then he wasn't nearly as sure of her as he'd pretended. Hmm. That's interesting, for spoilt, arrogant, _any-woman-I-want_ Castle. He's – off-balance – she surmises, a little doubtful about her deduction. She's set him off-balance, and he doesn't know what to do about it. Hmm, again.

"Hey," says Castle, sounding just as offensively confident as ever. If, that is, she wasn't listening very carefully. Ah, yes. There's the undertone. She's heard that from any number of witnesses, trying to pretend they're not shocked or upset or lying. Uncertainty. Somehow, some way, she's rattled him. Deep down, pleased satisfaction curls around her. She'd already established that he's not in control of the physical connection, any more than she is. If she can rattle his confidence, then this isn't the unequal contest she thought it was. It's a lot more interesting than that. Um. Another glimpse of something real, a personality that might have some redeeming features, under the smug, arrogant façade. Maybe he's not taking her for granted any more. She doesn't let a hint of her conclusions reach her face. She'll think about them later. When the wine's worn off.

"Castle." He doesn't hear anything in her voice except cool greeting. No enthusiasm, no desire, no heat. He looks full at her, produces his sexy, bad-boy, dangerous, thousand-watt smile, and drops enough of his own shields that she can – if she looks – see that he is genuinely glad she's here. He rapidly tells himself that he's always glad of the company of a very seriously hot woman, and knows he's lying even as he does. He has got to get control of himself. He's getting close to in too deep. He isn't going to get in too deep. It's an affair. Just an affair. He's forgotten that right at the beginning it was only going to be a one-night stand.

The smile should be illegal. It blazes round her, flames down her nerves, heats her blood. She's sure it wouldn't if she hadn't had the wine with Lanie. She sits down, a little faster than usual. It's difficult not to remember what that smile means. He'd had it last time they'd had dinner. He'd had it at the Storm evening. He'd had it at his apartment. It means hot, dirty, uncontrolled sex: edgy and dark and rough: a struggle for dominance that she knows he'll win, through size and bulk and sheer hard strength, though it won't stop her trying to succeed herself. She won't just give in: he has to work for it.

"It's nice here. Have you been before?"

"No. You?"

"Sometimes." He suddenly produces a completely different smile. "I brought Alexis here a few times. She liked it." He looks fond, a little wistful. "She was a lot younger then." Beckett watches him, considerably interested in this other aspect of Castle's personality. It's surprisingly likeable. Likeable? Writer-Boy likeable? Oh no no no. She doesn't want likeable, doesn't want anything that might get in the way of a civilised ending in due course. The deeper she gets in the more this will hurt. She only needs to have some uncomplicated fun: have exactly what she wants. She gives everything to the job, surely she's allowed to take this? But against that, the job demands her heart and soul: she can't afford distractions when she's standing for the dead. She's already forgotten that she was going to go home alone straight after dinner.

She takes a deep breath, flexes her shoulders slightly, bites her lip quite deliberately and watches Castle return to the playboy she doesn't need to like. His answering look has the hints of hunger and darker implications that are all she wants to elicit: all she needs to know. She's decided – at least for this moment - where she wants this evening to go, and it doesn't involve going home alone any more. Arranging that shouldn't be hard – and if she does it right, Castle will think it's all down to him, when she'll have made her own decisions. She smiles seductively and lets Castle take precisely the meaning she intends: that she's sufficiently impressed (finally) by his moves that she's prepared to play nicely. There will be time enough to change tack later in this meal, if it doesn't seem like a good idea any more – if he annoys or upsets her. Given the way her view of what she might do flip-flops like a suffocating fish out of water, she could have changed her mind five times by coffee even if he doesn't.

Castle thinks he's managed to cover his uncertainty and relief well enough that Beckett hasn't noticed. Now to ensure that he doesn't slip up about what he already knows about her history from the file he'd read. Something tells him that could be fatal. Not necessarily metaphorically.

"Where'd you go to college? Here in New York?"

"NYU." He wordlessly invites further comment. She doesn't know why she carries on. "Transferred from Stanford after" – she stops. Castle, unusually tactfully, says nothing, asks nothing. "Then the Academy."

"Ah." He very obviously – but Beckett is still grateful – changes the subject. "What's your name, Beckett?" He grins. "After all, this is our second date. Don't you think I should at least be allowed to know your name? If I have to keep calling you Detective Beckett – or should I call you Miss Beckett, like a Victorian novel? – it's going to be awfully formal and long-winded."

"I didn't think you worried too much about being long-winded, Castle." He pouts at her, opening his big blue eyes even wider. It's ridiculously attractive. "And this is not a date. We have never had a date." Castle ignores those comments.

"But it's not fair. You know my name – even if you never use it – but I don't know yours." He looks suddenly bright. "I could just ask Espo or Ryan. They'd tell me."

"Not if they want to live without digging in Dumpsters, they won't," Beckett mutters, not quite sufficiently sotto voce for Castle to miss it.

"C'mon. Don't I know you well enough to know your name?" And just like that all the dangerous, hungry tension snaps into place across the table. Castle's eyes have gone dark and feral, and it's perfectly obvious that he's thinking of every way he's already _known_ her, and all the ways he intends to do so again.

"Not yet," Beckett says lightly, and before he can say anything else, "I'm hungry. Are we going to eat or have you got me here under false pretences?"

Castle's left with no option but to deal with the distraction of the waiter and the ordering and a discussion of the best wine to accompany gnocchi with rabbit and linguine vongole, and by the time that's done the moment to press has passed. Still, there will be other ways to persuade Beckett to tell him her name; other points at which, he is sure, she will be very eager, indeed desperate, to answer anything he cares to ask, if only he won't stop.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. I appreciate everyone telling me what they think._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: How much do you want it**

After the waiter has departed, Castle decides that he's had enough of trying to elicit answers from Beckett, who's as impervious to personal questions as ever, and moves on to the main purpose of the evening: being lining up… dessert. He drops his voice into the bedroom tones that he's pretty certain work on Beckett – and so they should. They always work. Even Beckett won't resist the smooth undertones that imply sin and seduction: late nights and candlelit rooms; silk sheets and soft skin under sliding strokes. He'll ruin her with words; slip inside the eye of her mind and show her everything she can have, everything he thinks she wants. All she has to do is let him in; let him take the lead; let herself let go and be his.

The last two days and his biting nervousness that he'd mis-stepped again have left him in need of proving – but in truth he couldn't have said, if asked, whether he'd be proving it to Beckett or to himself – that she should be his. Possessiveness was barely leashed after the first time he'd been with her: and because he's currently so fundamentally uncertain about where he stands with her (though he won't admit that to himself either: no-one turns him down, now; no-one doesn't want to be with him) it only increases it. He wants to make it obvious that she's _with_ him: take her hand; stroke her cheek or kiss her lips; have his arm around her when they leave. Except that he can in no way guarantee that he'd be able to do any of those things in public without severe consequences, which will do nothing for his reputation or continued un-maimed existence. Still, he can be possessive in private, and judging by previous times Beckett will enjoy it.

"Guess you weren't as busy tonight as you thought, Beckett?" His voice says _I knew you were lying when you texted_. His grin says it rather more loudly. Beckett looks – sulky? – oh, that's cute.

"I was out with Lanie. By the time I saw your text and noticed that you weren't paying any attention to what I said – like you usually don't – Lanie wouldn't let me cancel." She looks horrified by what she's just let slip.

"_Lanie_ wouldn't let you cancel?" Castle doesn't like that at all. Beckett would just have ignored him – stood him up – if it wasn't for Lanie? "You'd have stood me up?" He's upset, and it shows.

"I told you I was busy tonight at lunchtime. You ignored me. How's it my fault if I hadn't seen your text and you'd have had to sit here on your own?" And now she sounds angry. This is suddenly not going well at all. "Perhaps if you paid some attention to what other people tell you rather than just doing what you want regardless and assuming everyone will be desperate to hear from you, you might have a little more success?" There's a cut-glass edge on every clear, cold word.

"I have plenty success. Just because you don't want to admit that doesn't mean it isn't true." He's just about to continue on with a statement of the order of_ I succeeded with you, didn't I_? that will ensure absolute disaster and a blazing public row, guaranteed to be on the gossip pages tomorrow morning, when the waiter returns with the wine and gives both of them a chance to step back from the brink. By the time Castle's suggested Beckett tastes it, she's politely declined and it has actually been pronounced very pleasant, the formal courtesies have cooled both their tempers sufficiently to regain safety. Food arrives shortly thereafter and distracts Beckett, who is none too sure that her annoyance has not arisen at least as much from too much wine on an empty stomach as from a genuine grievance. She needs to get her temper under control again.

She doesn't ask herself _why_ it is that Castle can irritate her so quickly, nor why that can so rapidly turn to and from a very different form of heat. She knows why. She's sure of why. It's because he thinks he can have what he wants without any effort. She's ignoring that actually he had gone looking for her, which – if she thought about it – she might have to realise is more effort than he's needed to show in years. If she thought about that, she might have to connect it to her other, earlier thoughts. And she doesn't want to do that, because then she might have to realise that he's already changed some from the cocky, casual, arrogant man who intruded on her life six weeks ago and hasn't had the decency to leave it since. She might also have to realise that her opinion of him has changed too. Though in both cases – if she thought about it, which she definitely isn't doing - she's sure that all that's changed is that he's useful in solving cases. On a personal level, he's as infuriating as ever - and sexy, but she's not thinking that either. Nothing's changed there. Nothing at all.

She concentrates on her food almost as hard as she's concentrating on not realising anything about Castle, and doesn't look up.

Castle is also concentrating on his meal, interspersed with a reasonable degree of concentration on the wine. He needs something to take the edge off his temper and hurt. The thought that Beckett, who's been giving him subtle and not-so-subtle come-ons for two days, would have simply left him sitting on his own and humiliated in public because he'd been careless with his words is more painful than he likes. It doesn't fit, either. She's not been nastily, pettily, meanly hurtful before, and he doesn't see why she should start now. He scraps euphemistical thoughts of lining up dessert and goes back to cool civility and precinct procedure.

"Why is there so much paperwork? Isn't that inefficient? I thought you were all out chasing criminals all the time."

"It's got to stand up in court. If you can't prove you did it by the book – which means paperwork – it gets trashed by a good defence attorney. Or even a bad one. Waste of time catching them if they just walk free later." She pushes a morsel of gnocchi round her plate, and doesn't look up. "It's hard enough to catch them without them walking." The gnocco completes another lap of her plate. Beckett's focus on its motion would do credit to an Olympic athlete's coach.

"Won't the court take your word for it?" Beckett's expression when Castle says that suggests both that she's bitten an especially sour lemon and that he is hopelessly naïve.

"No. Every judge, juror and attorney knows that there are bad cops. Every one of us is tarnished by them. Every case, that's pulled out to excuse the defendant. 'My client is accused of shooting his wife through the head but it wasn't him because the cops faked his DNA at the scene.' " Her bitterness spills right over. Castle's clearly pushed a different button here. "A few bad apples and we're all rotten." Her head comes up and her eyes are blazing with anger. "So no, Castle, the courts won't take our word for anything." She stops, looks back down at the plate, slumped into herself again. "Hence paperwork." There's a pause. "And even if there weren't dirty cops, there are plenty lazy cops." Castle comes to attention.

"How d'you mean, lazy cops?"

"Cops who just take the obvious solution, never ask any more questions, see the obvious suspect and don't pay attention to anything that doesn't fit. Lazy investigating. Good initial clear-up rate, though. Shame it's often the wrong answer and it falls down in court. Despite the paper trail."

Castle stops drinking his wine quite as quickly as he had been and refills Beckett's glass. He wonders how much she'd drunk with Lanie, to be this emotionally expansive. He's seeing another aspect of her here, and he's rapidly trying to fit it to the rest of the picture, and the file. Under all her acid, knife-edged words he can hear old pain, unhealed. He thinks he knows where this has come from: he knows – Espo told him – that Beckett's read her mother's file. (but he hasn't understood the significance, hasn't thought what that might mean in the context of her overachieving personality) He can't believe that such a perfectionist cop wouldn't have spotted that the investigation was somewhat sketchy. His desire to solve that mystery is bolstered. Ostensibly, it's to prove he's good enough, clever enough, just - enough. Underneath, he doesn't at all like that descant of hurt. When he solves the case it'll go away. He realises that his hand has crept across the table almost far enough to lie over Beckett's and pulls it back rapidly before she notices and breaks his fingers. This isn't about comfort, it's about finding the story. Just as he's got his hand back to safety, she slams down all her shutters again.

"So 1PP spends its time inventing new forms to try to up the conviction rate, and we spend our time trying to fill them in. Just like Dilbert, Castle, without the cubicles." She produces a very impressive effort at a sardonic smile. The gnocco is, however, still circuit-training round the plate, belying her calm face and voice. Suddenly, it seems, she realises what she's doing, puts her cutlery neatly together and sits back with her glass in hand. Her eyes give away nothing, her hand doesn't tremble, her expression is bland. There's nothing at all to indicate that this subject might have had a personal connection.

"It's very boring," Castle notes. "I don't want to have to write lots about Nikki filling in paperwork. That won't sell."

Beckett regards him with cynical amusement. "Just because we have to do it doesn't mean you have to write about it. You certainly don't have to sit around and watch. It doesn't help us do it any faster." Castle isn't sure how to take that. It's not – quite – a request that he stay away if he's not asked to attend at a new case. It's certainly not encouragement or a statement that he makes the day less boring. On the other hand, he got away with – no, he didn't. "And I want you to change the name. Nikki Heat is still a stripper name, not a cop name." She looks thoroughly pained. "What do you think it's going to do when everyone knows you're basing this fictional cop on me and calling her Nikki Heat? Do you _want_ me to be a laughingstock? Is that the plan, Castle?" Pained is rapidly becoming insulted.

"No. But you have to choose a name that attracts readers. One that gives good titles. Storm did, and Heat will. You don't mind the Nikki bit, you're just objecting to Heat." Much as he would like to say _and if you weren't so hot it wouldn't be nearly as accurate_ he doesn't feel that getting slapped would improve the evening. "Heat gives me all sorts of options for titles," he smirks. "Heat Wave. Summer Heat. Packing Heat. Et cetera." Beckett looks absolutely disgusted.

"Is that it? All your comments about artistic integrity and how you need to do all your research so the books are accurate and actually it comes down to choosing a name that will boost your sales? Is that all that matters?"

Castle looks – and indeed is – wounded. "No. But when I write a good book I want people to read it. And if you don't have an attractive title and cover it doesn't sell. People don't buy it unless something catches their eye, and obviously if they don't buy they don't read." He thinks about that for a second. "Well, I hope that they buy before they read. Piracy isn't helpful."

Beckett looks marginally less disgusted by the serious answer, though not much comforted. "I still don't think it's a good name." She has a thought, fuelled by the wine. "What are you calling Ryan and Esposito? Bet you're not giving them male stripper names."

Castle grins happily. "I haven't quite worked it out, but combined they're pretty ubiquitous, aren't they." Unwillingly, Beckett's lips quirk up in an answering grin. "So I thought – well, what's ubiquitous?" Beckett's grin widens. "And then I thought… roaches are ubiquitous." She sniggers, then full-out laughs.

"Roach? You're going to find two names that you can combine to make "roach"? Seriously?" Castle sniggers in his turn.

"Yep. So while you're complaining about Nikki Heat, just remember that I could have called her Roach. Or Rat. Or even Pigeon."

"Not Pigeon. Please, not Pigeon." She's still laughing at the thought, annoyance and upset gone as if they had never been.

"Aww, really? I was just beginning to think that it would make a better surname. You know, titles could be…um… Passenger Pigeon. Or Homing Pigeon? How about Carrier Pigeon?"

"That would make her sound like a shopping trolley. Or one of those food carts on airplanes."

Castle sniggers happily again. Suddenly it's all friends and good humour. He likes this. He _really_ likes this: someone who'll joke with him as if none of it really matters, no agenda. He doesn't need to pretend about what he's writing or put up a façade to hide writer's block. Not that he's suffered from that since the day Beckett stormed into his party and hauled him off for questioning. But this is really, really nice. Someone who catches his mental curve balls and throws them back with a different spin, confidently expecting him to pick them out the air and pitch them back in his turn. He can't remember the last time he met anyone who could do that, still less appeared to be enjoying it as they did. Being with Beckett is certainly never boring, and while he can't even begin to pretend to himself that their more… intimate… moments aren't _exactly_ the edgy, hot, definitely-not-plain-vanilla relationship that he hasn't found for some time (well, relationship may not – yet – be the word, but it will be); he also likes catching killers, the banter and focus in the bullpen, and the sense that the cops in the Twelfth (these ones, anyway) could be proper friends, not toadies or hangers-on or parasites.

"D'you want dessert? Or coffee – oh, I don't need to ask that, do I? Do you ever _not_ want coffee? But they have really good desserts here. There's a chocolate terrine…" He lets that lie suggestively between them. He's fairly sure that chocolate appeals to Beckett; almost as much as coffee.

"Okay." And sure enough she goes for the chocolate. And coffee, of course. He notes that it's a latte. Tomorrow, when he puts proper coffees from his machine on her desk, it will be lattes. Today had been plain Americano. He'll still addict her to his coffee, and now she's in a much better mood he also thinks that he can take her home – well, he can request that he accompanies her, carefully not treading on the toes of her absolute abhorrence of any sort of indication that she can't protect herself. He can learn. Oh yes, he can learn her likes and dislikes.

Dessert and coffee duly arrive. Beckett has finally relaxed, as much as she ever has, under the influence of a reasonable quantity of wine. Castle thinks vaguely that she must have the alcohol tolerance of a small oil tanker, because her speech and thinking haven't slowed at all. She's even being sociable: happy to argue about movies or restaurants. But finally dinner is done.

Castle takes care of the check, despite Beckett's best attempts to go Dutch.

"I invited you, Beckett." He assesses her pride. "You can take me out next time." He nearly falls over with amazement when she agrees. He's not at all sure that she knows what she's agreed to. But he'll not let on that she's just accepted a third date. She might, after all, change her mind. She's changed it, he thinks, several times already throughout dinner.

Beckett is considering the evening. After an extremely sticky start, it had actually been fun. Trading ever-sillier character names and suggestions, and then light conversation, for once not involving death, had been very enjoyable. (Building theory is also very enjoyable, she thinks. But she needs to stop dealing with death every moment she's awake.) And Castle hadn't once tried to imply, or even done so accidentally, that his knowledge or experience or wealth outweighed the value of her thoughts. She thinks back to her decisions over the weekend and the last couple of days, and Lanie's trenchant comments.

"I need to get home. Wanna hitch a ride, Castle?" She's not sure what she wants, or how much of it is the result of more wine in one night than she'd normally have in a week. Every time she decides what she wants, something changes her view. She's behaving like a ditsy teen: _do I, don't I; will I, won't I_. She hasn't realised that the reason underlying her changeability is that she's scared of what she might be falling into.

Castle manages not to react by sheer force of will. Reaction, in this case, being a growl of undiluted desire and quite possibly showing her just how much he'd like to share a lot more than a cab. But… if Beckett's asking him to share then just possibly Beckett's got more plans for the rest of the evening than them going their separate ways. Unlikely, but still… in the dark, quiet rear of a cab a lot could be intimated without disturbing the driver.

"Sure. Thank you." And he is very, very careful not to make any smartass comments that might spoil the possibilities that are becoming just a little less unlikely.

When a cab pulls to a stop after a moment or two and Castle opens the door for her Beckett automatically steps in and misses the address that he gives the driver. She assumes that since he's given the address, he'll get dropped off and then she'll go on home. She doesn't realise she's wrong for a few minutes. The route from dinner to her own apartment or to SoHo wouldn't be that different, initially. And then it becomes obvious that the cab is going to hers first. About that point, she starts to become suspicious of Castle's plans. A couple of instants later, she adds deep suspicion of his motives in taking up her offer of a cab share in the first place. It belatedly occurs to her that offering him a ride was not perhaps the best idea she could have had, if she doesn't want him tonight.

"I thought that you were getting out first?"

"No, ladies first." His voice is deeper, warmer, than in the precinct trading theories or than it had generally been over dinner. It eases gently into her mind and tucks in alongside certain nerves. "Your apartment is nearer the restaurant," – Beckett is fairly sure that isn't true - "why would I be dropped off first?" He smiles annoyingly. "I'm sure I'll survive the night-time journey from yours to mine."

"Why are you sharing a cab anyway?" She manages to impute a considerable sting of her previous irritation into that. "Shouldn't you have got one of your own? You don't live round here."

"You asked me. And I wanted company. It's boring on my own. I like having someone to talk to." His voice is dropping all the time, slipping softly into an intimate murmur that she has to lean towards him to hear over the rattle of the taxi. She knows what he's doing. It's not that subtle. "I like talking to you."

"Yes, I'd noticed. Though I thought you just liked talking. You do enough of it."

"I'm wounded. Don't you appreciate my words?" He drops his voice further. "You appreciated them the other night." Somehow his fingers have migrated to her hand and are gently circling on her skin. The featherlight stroking is reminding her of other touches, in other places. She doesn't pull her hand away as quickly as she might have. And when she does, she realises the rookie mistake she's just made. Why she'd thought pulling her hand away would have meant that Castle would return his hand to his own side of the cab, she has no idea. He never does anything she wants. Well, in public, anyway. Now his fingers are circling gently against her leg.

"That's not appropriate." She says it coolly. But it's rather difficult for him to believe in prunes and prisms Beckett any more, now he knows what she wears – _off-duty_, as it were._ Game on._

"I think it's very appropriate." He's hit his full bedroom voice. The atmosphere in this close, confined, claustrophobic cab turns private, intimate. Unacknowledged dark desires stalk the shifting shadows thrown by the streetlights. His treacle-smooth baritone pours softly through the suddenly sultry air, insinuates itself around her in the way she's sure the man himself intends to do; cocooning any vestiges of common sense out of her way. His fingers draw their slow circles a little higher, a little hotter; pressing their point.

* * *

_OK, now you all hate me. I, however, do not hate you, and to prove it there will be a new chapter on Saturday, continuing from precisely where this one leaves off. You may draw your own conclusions as to content. Thank you for all reviews, and please let me know your thoughts._


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19 Let me entertain you**

Castle sees Beckett beginning to bite her lip. She's not pulling away or pushing him away or mutilating him or shooting him. _She wants this_. He doesn't change his tempo, or the location: close enough to tantalise, far enough to tease. By the time they reach her apartment he'll have stoked her to flashpoint. This time, he's going to be in control of affairs from the beginning. He'll learn what she wants; interrogate her in ever more pleasurable ways, and she'll tell him more of what bad-girl Beckett likes. He'd originally thought, right back when he first saw her, that she might be adventurous. Now he's only wondering how far adventurous might go. Because he's perfectly prepared to go as far as she wants.

The cab is close to pulling up at Beckett's apartment. She's desperately trying not to squirm, hot and frustrated and damp, when Castle leans in even closer and breathes seductively across her ear.

"Not wearing stockings today, Beckett?" His tongue flicks over her earlobe. She feels her whole body tighten. "That's no…fun. I've been imagining you in them ever since our first date. Do you know what you look like in nothing but black lace and stockings?"

"That's not appropriate. And it wasn't a date," she says, again. She can't think when he's stroking her thigh and whispering dark, sexy thoughts in her ear in that soft-as-sin baritone. All she can think of, when he's doing that, is those other nights and what else he did and she did and they did. It's not helping her calm down at all. There's heat building between her legs. If she's going to stop him, this is her opportunity. If she's going to send him home, she needs to speak now.

She says absolutely nothing. She'll let him come up, she's decided she wants him to come up, but she won't just fall at his feet, she's going to play with his head first. Let's see if he's prepared to push for what he so very clearly wants, if he's capable of putting a little effort in. She's sure that he never has to make any effort at all. Well, if he wants her, he's going to have to.

"They seemed very appropriate. Who'd have thought that the perfectly proper Detective Beckett in her perfectly prim and proper pants and button downs could dress like that for dinner, and wear lingerie like that underneath?" He'll seduce her with words, before he ever gets to touch. "What might I find under your precinct garb if I unbuttoned you now? Is the cream you let me have a glimpse of as sexy as the crimson you wore when you came to me?" _Not, Beckett, to my loft. To me._ He hears her breath hitching and lets his own hunger show, just as the taxi stops. He holds its door for Beckett, throws a suitable bill at the driver and turns back to her just in time to ensure that he's not left standing outside the closing door. She hasn't waited for him at all. _Not nice, Beckett. Not nice at all. You'll pay for that._ She'll enjoy how she pays for that.

"Thought you were going home, Castle. What's this?"

"Seeing you home. That's what a gentleman does, Beckett. I'm sure I've explained that before."

Silly Beckett, thinking that he won't come up, he muses – and stops hard. That was almost affectionate. He's not going there. Affection is far too close to other emotions that he's not up for. Not required, not wanted, not helpful. It won't help him cure his obsession: it won't lessen his desire. The only thing that will do that is catching, and keeping, Beckett, till they're – he's – done.

Anyway. Why on earth would she think that he's going home right now? He'd never said _when_ he was going home. He follows her to the elevator, just a little too close for comfort; leans against the wall, just a little too large for the space available; slides his gaze up and down her, just a little too slowly to let her pretend she doesn't notice; follows her out the elevator at the other end. When she pulls out her keys he grasps her waist and turns her back around to face him.

"Okay, Castle, you've seen me home. Your membership of the league of gentlemen remains intact." And that's back to the normal spark. On the other hand, it's not a command that he go home, simply a comment on the current situation. Since he doesn't want to go home yet, he won't take it like that.

"Not quite. You haven't got safely into your apartment yet. Who knows, you might be abducted from outside your own front door. I can't allow that to happen." He's still using the deep timbre of seduction.

She looks completely disbelieving, along with the familiar annoyance. Good. The more annoyed she is, the more likely she'll just react, just like previously. Feel. Not think. He'll do the thinking, should any be required, tonight. He doesn't believe it will be. He'll worry about what he's learned later, when he can process it properly, fit it into the Beckett story and use it to solve the mystery of her mother. That's where he needs to direct his thinking: where it will do most good: working out the story.

He doesn't think about the earlier times that working out the story got him in trouble. Not now. Not any more. (_Don't you ever say that again, Ricky. Don't ever tell that story to anyone._) But then Beckett turns back to the door and opens it. He follows her inside, too.

"Castle, I'm home. I'm inside. I'm okay. You don't have to stay." The snap is still in her voice. "You don't need to see me in the door. This building has security, in case you didn't notice, and I have a gun." She slips off her coat, toes off her heels in what looks to him like an automatic _hey-honey-I'm-home _gesture, unclips her gun and holster from her belt and puts it away in what looks like a small safe. That's an automatic end-of-day move, too. And now she can't shoot him, which is something of a relief. Her suppressed and not-so-suppressed anger, constantly just below the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest check, not often enough mixed with raw arousal, does not incline him to think that he's safe around her. But she still hasn't told him to go, and she's fast enough to tell him to go or to make her point clear by leaving herself if she doesn't want him there. He smiles inwardly. He's not going anywhere until she tells him to.

He'll need to ask about gun storage – more research – but not, emphatically not, now. He's got other questions to ask now. She's stepping back towards the door where he's lurking, sure that if she means him to leave her ingrained manners will defeat the flare of irritation and force her back here to see him out politely. Bring her into range. He doesn't think this will work again. He's used her own annoyance and arousal and consequent proximity against her twice: this will be three times now, and he's sure that she'll be alert for it before another time can succeed. But here and now he thinks she's a little tired, her thinking a little sloppy from the wine, and his urgent need simply to _get her back_, to show her that she should give in to him, be with him, is not ameliorated by either of those considerations in any way.

"I _said_, you don't have to stay. I'm perfectly okay," she repeats, stopping just out of reach. He's invading her space, though, running his regard over her with darkened eyes and more than a hint of hunger; reminding her of the hot hard night that had matched and then surpassed her dreams. She knows he can give her what she wants, needs. He isn't exactly taking any steps to leave. She isn't asking him to.

"But what if I want to?" Now he looks and sounds plaintive, little-boy pleading, so very much not the predatory expression she was expecting that she pauses. She almost, almost feels sorry for how she's playing him. Until she takes a closer look and realises that he's simply putting it on. Acting. She frowns, tending towards a scowl.

"Very cute, Castle. Making fake puppy eyes at me won't work." He looks hurt, and when that, too, doesn't work gives up and reverts to a slow, sensual smile.

"It was worth a try."

"Why are you here?" Which is still not _I want you to leave_.

She might be thinking a little sloppily, but, Castle realises, that has the forceful snap of interrogation behind it _and_ she hasn't come any closer. But under it there's something quite different: seduction. _Ohh, Beckett. Let's play_. She's too clever, she's guessed his game, his aim, and she's playing him. He's going to kiss the cleverness right out her head; leave her dazed and desperate and ready for him. She'll keep him from being bored, for a while; keep him from being scared that he can't write well enough to satisfy his fans, his publisher, himself: because while he's around her the story is right there, and he can go to his laptop any time he pleases and let it flow from his mind out through his fingers, confident that it's right, it's good.

He buries the memory of the twist of his gut when he thought she'd walked away: the thin cold edge of terror that he wasn't enough for her; that in losing her he'd lost his inspiration. He'll _be_ enough for her: intelligent enough, masculine enough, satisfying enough. She reads his books, their minds mesh, she fires under his hands, his mouth, his body: he must be enough. But under it all is the fear that she sees right through the façade, sees that he's not the brash, successful, confident star that the world expects. If she'll respect him and want him and need him, then maybe he is that man: maybe he is, can be, more. He'll show her, and everyone else at the precinct, that he's valuable; that he can be, should be, part of the team; that there's a place for him; that he's not a nuisance, getting in the way of more important people with more important work and goals. (_Stop getting in the way of the grown-ups, Ricky, we're busy, go read out the way somewhere_, says a little voice in the back of his mind. He ignores it, in the same way he ignores all of those voices.) He's been useful, already, by providing his intelligence. He's a respected person now. He'll use both intelligence and respect – and the contacts respect has brought him - to get her the answers she couldn't find for herself, and then she'll see how valuable he is.

She knows why he's here. It's precisely why she wants him here. He's crowding her, not physically – yet – but having dropped the act, he's filling up her apartment with danger and heat and that promise of something darker, edgier. He's still too big, though. She's trying to ignore that, but it's a bit difficult to ignore right now, while he's deliberately looming, leaning intimidatingly against the wall, surveying her from head to foot. It's having exactly the effect he would want.

"You know why I'm here." It's not a question at all. "You know what I want." He could hardly, now, have made it clearer. He still wants her, and he's prepared to be more than a little assertive about it. The suggestive, murmurous tone is squirming into her nerves and he's very, very close. "It's what you want too, Beckett." She's not going to comment on that. (But he's right. Oh yes.)

"I thought" – she raises a brow as if to negate the suggestion that he thinks - "you might want a goodnight kiss. Seeing as this is our second date and all." And since, like the mountain and Muhammad, she won't come to him, he takes the two rapid steps that are all that are necessary to reach her, tugs her into his arms, discovering with silky delight that without heels she tucks very neatly against his shoulder, smaller and more delicate without the height and power the shoes give her. He tips her chin up to give himself easy access to her mouth and bends his head. "And you can have it." He pauses, a whisper away from her mouth. "Just as soon as you like." He leans in the last breath and kisses her.

Just like last time at her apartment, she instantly opens to his demanding lips, his searching, hungry tongue; receptive and so very responsive under his hard, hot kiss. Just like last time, with no considerations of his family to stop him, it's all flaring into that explosive, instant need: hard against soft, push against pull: he wants her to be naked and wet and writhing for him _right now_. But _unlike_ the last time he was here, he manages to retain just enough control not to start stripping her clothes off and shoving her against the door and taking her right here right now. Because this time he's going to take it slow. Take her slow. By the time he's finished she'll be screaming, hot and soaked and pinned beneath him; begging, tight and shattering around him. Oh yes. The predatory big-cat that's his desire to have her, own her, stretches out its massive limbs within him.

He presses her close, tight into him with one wide palm across the curve of her ass, the other cupping the nape of her neck, letting her feel the promise implicit in the force of his hard body, in the way he's holding her to restrict her movement, stop her taking what she wants. He knows what she wants, she wants to arch against him, bring her leg around his waist and open to him and grind in. And she'll be allowed to, but not yet. This is not going to be the same frantic uncontrolled flames and desperation as before. This is not going to incinerate his control. This is going to be a slow, deliberate rise in temperature: heating the water so slowly the frog doesn't understand it's being boiled. So that the Detective doesn't detect she's being caught; so she doesn't spot her addiction. She won't be leaving him any time soon. She won't be leaving him at all. No-one leaves him. Not any more.

He turns them round and pins her to the door with the weight of his body, his feet outside hers, keeping her from opening against him, not letting her have the pressure and friction where she wants it. She can't push him back, free her leg, though she tries. One hand stays behind her head, holding her into his slow, searching exploration of her mouth, and, when he's finished there for now, turning her head so that he can kiss around her neck and behind her ear and nip her earlobe and find the spot which makes her emit a sobbing little gasp. He hears it with satisfaction, and does it again. His other hand slides slowly over her hip, up her side, not touching where he _knows_ she wants him to, sliding the cotton of her shirt from side to side so it rubs over her breasts and causes her to draw in breath, so it loosens the bottom of the shirt from the waistband of her pants. He flicks the top button open, widens the vee at her neck, strokes down just hard enough that she'll know his intentions. Her hands are gripping on his shoulders, sharp nails already biting through the light fabric of his shirt. She'll scratch and claw, and then she'll purr. He'll make her purr, again.

He slides his hand back down to her waist and carefully undoes her belt, pulls the leather free of the buckle, the belt from its loops; and skims wickedly light fingers across the satin skin and tight muscle under her shirt at her waist, dipping just fractionally below the waistband and making her gasp and try to roll against his hand and hips again. He doesn't let her. He's got this. He can preserve his own control and destroy Beckett's. And then he'll know he's still in charge of this situation, that his own feelings won't lead him to be that other man who simply took and didn't care. He'll still be desired, still be in control, still be everybody's favourite man. (_I'm going with Ted, Ricky. Not you._) Even Beckett's. Just like he ought to be. She's going to be his, just like _she_ ought to be.

He undoes the next button, and traces along the thin edge of cream lace that it reveals. Beckett shivers under the gentle touch, and brings her hand off his shoulder and over his collarbone, unbuttoning on her own account. If he's going to start that, then she's going to play too. She slips her fingers under his shirt and downward, scraping against the firm muscle, stroking lightly over Castle's nipples. He gasps and jerks into her, regains his balance by half-stepping back, and she takes the sudden opportunity presented to escape the way he'd been preventing her stretching around him, stopping her placing him where she wanted. She widens her stance before he has a chance to work out what she's doing; grasps his belt and pulls him hard to try and bring him into her. He doesn't shift an inch towards her. She tries again, with as little result.

"Something you want, Beckett? Or should that be _someone_?" He grins, the hand that was behind her head now holding her easily against the door so she can't step forward. He takes the opportunity to undo a third button, and looks admiringly at the edge of cream satin and lace he's revealed. "Still pretty. I like it." He draws a finger down the centre line of her cleavage, and she wriggles.

"I didn't put it on to please you." Her voice says _I wouldn't lift a finger to please you_.

"No?" The tone is disbelieving. She doesn't turn a hair. "No. You wear lingerie like that to please yourself, don't you? Oh, Detective Beckett. What else are you hiding under your formal shirts and dress pants?" He flicks the remaining two buttons open in quick succession; fast definitive movements making his certainty about the outcome clear; pulls it wide open and devours her with his eyes. The coy cream satin is just as sexy as the black, hot-as-hell lace or the deep crimson silk had been; sends heat surging through him. Suddenly it's not just a game any more; suddenly his control is all slipping away. His hands turn hard and possessive, pulling her against him, tugging her to the bedroom, pushing her down on the bed, leaning over her – stopping. He has to ask. Because he's not that man.

"Is this what you want, Beckett?" The words are drawled out in the deep molasses sexy tone that goes straight to her core; a teasing, arousing question designed to elicit the answer _yes_, to draw her into admitting her acceptance of his control of the game. But under it Beckett hears something very different. She may be half out her mind with arousal but there's a note there that tells her that there's a real question, a real choice. And if she says _no_, he'll stop. No question. She can trust that: she knows that. And under that again, only just discernible, is something else, that she'll think about later. When her mind isn't screaming at her to switch off, stop analysing, stop fighting, give in to sensation. He's so very, very good at sensation. But she's got game. She can't just concede control.

"You think I couldn't shoot you if it wasn't? Or that I let anyone do anything I don't want?" She smiles very slowly and very wickedly, flexes just a little so that the shirt falls away from her ribs.

"I think you don't let anyone do anything for you, whether you need it or not." She doesn't have a chance to catch that thought before it's lost in his next words. "But I'm sure you won't shoot me, because I think I'm the only person you're allowing to see this. I think I'm the only person you'll allow to have this. No-one else gets to do this. You're _my_ badass detective, Beckett. All mine. Only mine." He's deliberately possessive, deliberately laying down the way he wants it to be, and he sees her eyes turn hazy with arousal as he claims her with his words. He draws a firm hand down between her breasts, and watches her chest rise and fall faster under the satin as he moves it lower and lower.

* * *

_thank you to all reviewers. Please keep letting me know what you think._


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: Let's get physical**

When he reaches her waist he stops again, this time simply to tease. She growls at him, brings her own hands round to unbutton the rest of Castle's shirt, his belt, his pants, somewhere along the way he's lost his shoes.… at least, undoing him was the plan. Somehow he's just out of reach, and when she tries to sit up it's not happening. Heat stokes a little higher, arousal builds a little darker, as she realises that without exerting any great effort Castle is holding her just the way he wants to. She might be wide open to his hands, but she can't reach him to return the compliment. She puts some more effort into it, not willing to accept that he should be able to impose his will on her; not willing to submit to his strength without putting up a fight. She shifts suddenly to one side, out from under his hand, grips his wrist and levers herself to sitting, twists his arm and pushes down hard so he's sprawled across the bed. That's better. He looks up at her, grins lazily, infinitely sure of himself, infinitely seductive.

"Do you want to play rough, then, Beckett?" He moves faster than she'd thought a big man could, grabs her and pulls her on top of him, and while she's trying to break his hold and bring a knee up to prove a point he rolls them over and suddenly it's just like in the gym again, heavy weight pinning her down and spreading her legs and it's her turn to smile slowly because now she's got what she wanted and this time she doesn't hesitate to arch up and rub against him.

"Trying to cheat? Playing dirty? We can't have that." It's deep and dark and slow and temptation incarnate. Beckett feels the silky voice stroke along the inside of her skin and squirms in response against Castle's still-clothed body. His eyes are dark and dilated and he looks at her as if he's the apex predator and she's prey. Her lips open without her conscious volition, reacting to the bad-boy voice and the position and the hint of something darker in his words.

"I thought you wanted to play… dirty." She smiles wickedly and quite deliberately licks her lips. He hisses, but doesn't react further.

"Cheating won't get you what you want, Beckett. We'll get to playing dirty in good time." He slides down so that she can't get friction, tall enough that his face is still over hers, his lips above her mouth, leaning on his elbows. "Cheating has… consequences." He invades her mouth, taking and claiming and conquering and possessing till she moans into him and lets him own it; then takes her wrists into one hand, holding them in front of her, and sits back on his heels.

Castle is exerting an immense amount of self-control not to lose himself completely, strip Beckett without a pause and take her here and now. She'd like it, too, fast and rough; but he's going to show her that there's more to it than hot hard sex. There's slow, drugging, passion too. He'll show her both, possession cut by careful consideration of all the different variations they can try; though consideration of any kind has very little to do with anything at present. He had a plan, and effecting it means keeping control. His own, and of the remains of the evening. He pops the button on Beckett's pants, unzips them, watches the contraction in her abs as she starts to sit up and uses the hand holding her wrists to push her very gently back down again.

"Told you, cheating has consequences. Stay there." The lazy, predatory grin is still very firmly present. He can see the intrigue, anticipation, starting to bloom on her face, but she doesn't stop fighting him for control of the game, trying to free her hands. He wonders if she'll stop fighting him, eventually; if she'll accede for tonight. He has no illusions about how long _accede_ might last. Approximately till she wakes up tomorrow, he thinks. If _accede_ ever begins. _Concede _likely never will. Time to stop thinking irrelevant thoughts and start on some very relevant actions.

Castle lets go of Beckett's hands and, before she can take any precipitate actions, shoves her shirt halfway down her arms and, while she's trying to disentangle herself, moves to one side, whisks off her pants in one practised gesture, shifts back to his original position, and leaves her in only her underwear and the open shirt which she's trying to escape. Then he simply stays where he is and watches as she emerges from the tangle of sleeves and shirt-tails.

He's content just to look at her, his dark blue eyes intent and focused, a half-smile. His gaze runs up and down her skin, noting the soft sheen of slight sweat, the push of her breasts and erect nipples against her bra, the results of his possession. Dark satisfaction stretches out within him. There'll be other results, later, memories of the pleasure he'll give her, reminding her how he'll have owned her. Not where anyone else can see. It's she who needs to know she's his, not anyone else. Lying in front of him, laid out like a courtesan for his delectation, waiting, she's exactly what he wants. And now he has her. (_You thought that every other time, too. Except you didn't have her_.) He pushes the fragment of insecurity away, and runs lazy hands up from her ankles, unhurriedly, trailing his fingers tantalisingly close, but not close enough.

"What do you want, Beckett?" Her eyes are hooded, lashes down against damask cheeks, hiding her thoughts. "This?" He slides his fingers up over her stomach and palms her breasts, sliding soft fabric this way and that. She squirms under the touch, reaches for him. "Uh-uh. You cheated."

"I did not." She smiles tauntingly. "If you can't handle it…" It's too much. He holds her hips down and leans in and blows very gently across her.

"I'll handle you, Beckett. Oh yes." He runs his tongue over the satin and she jerks under his grip. "I think you like that." He does it again, slowly, as if he's tasting her on the fabric, and she feels him smirk as she writhes, stubble scraping against her. "I _know_ you like that." The next time she gasps. He continues to tease, never touching except through her panties. Shortly, she's moaning, and he's holding her firmly enough that there might be fingermarks on her hips tomorrow, if she moves much more. It feels so _good_, to be held so tight. She slides her hands into Castle's hair to hold him in place.

Which is when he stops, lifting his head to gaze up her body with his trademark infuriating smirk smeared across his face. That's not nice. Well, if he won't play nice, she'll take matters into her own hands. So to speak. She starts to pull away and sit up.

"What're you doing, Beckett?" He tugs at a nicely-judged angle and she ends up flat on her back again. He grins ferally. "Down you go."

"If you hadn't stopped going down" – there's an appreciative snicker – "then that wouldn't have happened."

"I keep telling you," Castle says in a long-sufferingly patient tone, "cheating has consequences. Today's consequence is that I get to set the pace. That means you don't get to." His tone conveys his complete assumption of her obedience within the game.

"Or I get to throw you out and attend to business myself."

"No, I don't think so. Who beat whom at sparring?" There's a significant pause.

"You think you can take me?" She realises her mistake just as he opens his mouth.

"Oh, Beckett. I _know _I can take you." He doesn't take his eyes off her face as he runs large fingers delicately over her panties, pausing at physiologically significant points to play. When her body relaxes he lowers his head again, nips at her thigh and hears the answering gasp; trails his mouth across the soaked satin and repeats the soft bite on the other side. "You'll _beg _me to take you." He goes back to letting his fingers play, slipping under the material, running through her folds, circling, dipping, never close enough or firm enough or deep enough to give her what she wants, until her breathing speeds up and acquires an edge of moan, until she pushes against his hand.

"You like that. And you like this." He finally slips a finger into her and she bucks into it; whimpers as he withdraws it, proving his point. He slides up next to her and leans over to kiss her deeply. She shivers, and he wraps her in and kisses her some more, slowly demonstrating how he can wind her up without anything more than leisurely possessive kisses and holding her in tight in strong arms against hard muscle and hot weight. She feels so very right, up close and personal like this; she fits so very well against him.

Beckett retains, with some difficulty, enough awareness to realise that Castle is back to petting her into acquiescence rather than succumbing to his own previously uncontrolled need. Oh no. No way. She extricates one hand and sets about changing the balance, stroking down his body, finishing unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckling his belt; until she can manoeuvre her fingers between them and open his zip, palm across the hard bulge and when he jerks slip her hand into the slit in his boxers and set about removing any idea that he might have of _setting the pace_. If he thinks that she'll just let him reduce her to a melted mess as and when – and how – he pleases, without needing to try, then he's wrong. Giving up control does not, to her mind, mean complete, unsought, surrender. She angles her fingertips carefully and glides softly downward, teasing with the tips of her nails; tracing him just hard enough to lend an edge of danger; to impart the knowledge that he's – not so metaphorically – wholly in her hands.

His reaction is instant: the leisurely kiss turns hard, hungry; his hands clench around her waist and at the back of her neck; he rolls over, taking her from beside him to beneath him in one motion, settling in the niche of her thighs and trapping her hand between them. If she strokes him now, she'll be stroking herself too. She's flicked his switch, closed the circuit and electrocuted his control. He leaves any concept of _slow_ behind, takes his hand from her neck to undo her bra. He needs her to be naked. He needs to be naked. Just that instant of intimately delicate, scraped touch has shocked him into the explosive desire that left him stripping her and taking her against her own door; left him breaking all his own house rules; leaves him completely incapable of slowing or stopping or anything other than taking total possession of every inch of her body. And then she does it again: curls her fingers and strokes from base to tip and feathers her thumb across the resulting moisture and she moves against her own hand and he is not having that because she should be moving to _his_ touch not her own and he reaches down and takes her fingers away.

She fights it, of course. She tugs against his grip and, when that fails, tries to grind against him and distract him that way; but further arousing as that is it doesn't make him let go of her hands until there's no chance that she can sneak them back; till he's settled tightly against her. Instead she pulls at his shirt until it untucks and opens, leaving them close enough to skin to skin that response flares and suddenly Castle's got no shirt and Beckett's bra has disappeared and he's kissing her frantically while holding her into him with one hand and trying to finish stripping her and himself with the other because he just plain needs her naked under him now. And then, finally, he has her, with one push seated deep within her heat, as close as he can get; she's gripping his back as if she'll never let go, and they start to move together till the world falls away.

It happened again, he thinks raggedly. He'd meant to reduce her to wreckage and stay whole himself and yet again he couldn't stop it all exploding. He lies back, spent; keeps Beckett bound in beside him. When he's capable of movement he still doesn't release her. She stretches, wriggles a little into the pillows, relaxes and turns on to her side, away from him. It feels like she's rebuilt a barrier.

"Don't go away."

"Mmm?" She's sleepy from wine and sex. "Not going anywhere." Some consciousness re-activates, briefly. "This is my bed. It's you who'll leave." She quietens again, snuggling into her comforter. Castle stares into the ceiling, hoping some writing will appear on it which it might make that last comment a little clearer. He doesn't necessarily like the implication that she expects him to leave. Now? Eventually? At the end of the affair? She shouldn't expect him to leave, she should want him to stay. But it didn't sound like she does.

"How d'you mean, it's me who'll leave?"

Beckett rolls over under her comforter and looks blearily at him. "My apartment. You won't stay here. You'll go home to your loft. Not a problem." She shuts her eyes by way of punctuation.

Not a problem? _Not a problem_? She's supposed to want him. She's supposed to be addicted. How can it be_ not a problem_ that he'll go home, leave her? He wasn't even planning to go home. Certainly not yet. His mother's home tonight, so he needn't go except to be back for breakfast. Except Beckett doesn't seem to care either way. He feels the same sharp slice of pain that he'd suffered in the precinct when she'd told him she was _just scratching an itch_. He's forgotten that sleepovers are, apparently, for grade-schoolers.

"I don't have to go." He doesn't hear the neediness in his voice, the implied question, _don't you want me to stay?_ Half-asleep, Beckett doesn't consciously pick it up either.

" 'Kay then." But there's no emotion worth mentioning in that reply, as if she's indifferent, uncaring. Hurt gnaws again, needle-toothed in his gut. Does she really not care, either way? She will care. She has to care. He'll make her care, right now; and later, when he solves her case for her. He pulls the comforter away to reveal her and drops it over the side of the bed. Her eyes snap open, instant wakefulness.

"What'd you do that for? It's cold. Give me it back." She's coming back to life unpleasantly rapidly in the cool air. She sits up and looks about for the comforter, finally spotting it on the floor on the far side of the bed. She pushes crossly at Castle, who's not doing anything to move out the way and let her retrieve it so she can cuddle back down and go to sleep. Plus or minus him. If he doesn't let her get the comforter back, definitely minus him, because he will be dead. She crawls over him so she can reach down for it.

"You don't need it. I'll keep you warm." He wraps his arms round her so she can't get the comforter, then rolls them both to the side, keeping her tucked into his chest, facing him. It is, she admits to herself, warm. Rather more interestingly warm than the comforter.

"There. I've got you," he purrs quietly. "All soft and warm and strokable" – his tone changes – "and all mine." He demonstrates to her just how strokable she is. His hand insinuates itself over her hip, across her ass, pulls her in tightly on to his very evidently renewed arousal. He'll show her she should care. Her leg comes up around his waist, giving him free rein to stroke, and he takes full advantage of the concession; slips fingers through the hot centre she's made accessible until she moves demandingly against him, wet, naked and so very, very sexy; nipping at his collarbone, not able to shift further than the circumscribed freedom his grasp allows her hips. He rolls her on to her back and stops even that limited motion: muscled thigh pressing firmly between her legs; pinioning her hands above her head; conquering her mouth and swallowing her first moan, her second; flexing hard quads against her and feeling her squirm against the roughness; driving his tongue through her opened lips till he's sure that she _cares_ about him kissing her. And then he takes his mouth off hers and starts to kiss round her neck to that sensitive spot by her ear so that she'll want to move but can't because he's pinning her down just as she likes. Oh, he knows she's liking it because he can feel her trying to move more and he can hear her moaning and oh, she _will_ care about this. About him.

He starts to draw wet patterns lower, reaching her clavicle and biting, sucking, deliberately leaving a mark. No-one else will be able to see it. No-one else needs to. Further down; a brief hesitation to left, to right. Further still, a warm wet circle around her navel, a lover's kiss. Furthest: spreading her out and holding her wide and small nips shading the smooth skin and this time he will bring her to begging for more and she _will_ care. He settles in and begins to tease, to taste, to play. This time there's no fabric, no barrier, nothing to stop him taking her higher and higher till he's all she'll know.

Beckett is very definitely not cold any longer. Quite the opposite, in fact. Castle's lips and teeth and tongue are trailing fire across her and _oh that feels so good_ he's in complete control of her reactions and _don't stop_ his tongue slips across her and into her and _please don't stop_ he really is big enough to hold her still and she needs that and… _don't stop!_

"Do you want this, Beckett?" That wicked tongue flicks over her again, not quite where she wants it. "You need to ask for it."

"Please, Castle." She can barely form the words.

"Are you begging, Beckett?" Flicker, lick, slowly in and out. Her next utterance is simply a string of syllables with no discernible words at all.

"That's not an answer." She regains breath and coherence, only because he has, quite unfairly, stopped again.

"Please." Deep breath. "Don't stop." Another deep breath. "Please, Castle."

"Since you ask so nicely." Words and breath and thought flee. His mouth is a lethal weapon which she has no way of escaping. Doesn't want to escape. She gives herself up to the moment and forgets everything in the rush of sensation, not caring that he's caused her to lose control, rather than her giving it up; not conscious that she's begging; and wholly unaware that she's calling his name as she comes.

When she finally resurfaces she's back to being tucked into Castle's chest, head on his shoulder, held in close. It's the same possessive gesture, with the same odd undertone, as before. Once might be a mistaken impression. Twice is beginning to form a pattern.

"You're mine, Beckett." She should object. She would object, if only she had energy enough to speak. "All mine." He kisses her hair, more gently than the force of his words might suggest, strokes idly over her back. "And I'm going to keep you." The deep rumble is so quiet that it's almost as if he's talking to himself. She's too comfortable to object. Time enough to correct any ideas of possessiveness later, if it should prove to be problematic. Still, perhaps a small distraction from this line of thought would be politic. She wriggles in a very particular way, which results in an entirely predictable answering wriggle from one particular area. Mmmm. She wriggles again, into a more acceptable alignment. His next movement can't be described as a wriggle, of any sort. More like a… thrust. Gentle seems to have gone for a walk. Hard forcefulness, on the other hand, is definitely staying around.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. _

_I __don't normally answer reviews here, but I would like to point out that the characters of this Castle and Beckett are deliberately different in key ways to the way in which they were on the show, the reasons for which differences will become apparent in due course. I am not trying to write a copy of the show characters, I am exploring a considerably darker version of both of them. If anyone wants to discuss how I got there, I'm happy to discuss my reasoning over PM (to avoid spoilers for others) for then expanding these aspects and taking it outside character canon. There are some similarities to canon, but there are also many differences. __I will not be changing the way the characters are behaving within this stage of the story and how they will develop._

_If readers feel I should tag this as AU in consequence, let me know and I will. I am never quite sure of where different becomes actively AU._


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: Not somebody who has seen the light**

Beckett wakes in the small hours of the morning, somewhat surprised to find Castle still there, still, she notes, wrapped around her. That's probably what's woken her, lack of freedom to move. She tries to go back to sleep, but after a few moments it becomes clear that her mind has roused and sleep is not likely to return in the immediate future. She untangles herself with extreme caution to avoid waking Castle, slips a warm robe on against the chill and pads softly to the living room, closing the door silently behind her and only switching on a small lamp by the couch. She wants to think, undistracted.

She doesn't understand how she got here. Seven weeks in, she's gone from absolute abhorrence to sleeping with him. More than once. _At least be honest with yourself, Kate. You wanted him from the moment you saw him. You just didn't like his attitude._ She doesn't understand his current attitude, either. He's spent every last moment that he's with her ensuring she's wholly aware of his desire; every word drips with arousal and seduction and the implication that she couldn't possibly resist him –_ and you didn't, did you?_ – but… But. There's that edge of uncertainty, behind the cocky façade, and something else, that she can't quite get a hold of, under that. He's been very, very careful to check that she wants it: whatever _it_ may be. It's all concealed in sinful, teasing tones but there's a real choice there. She still doesn't understand at all why he was so horrified by his behaviour in his loft. She's seen, and men have attempted and failed to subject her to, a lot worse, with less apology. And for a page six playboy who's apparently had more casual affairs than Casanova, who could reasonably be expected to be waving goodbye after the first night, he's exhibiting a considerable degree of possessive behaviour. Surely that's just part of the game, though. She likes dominant bad boys, in bed, and certainly Castle qualifies on both counts, so he's undoubtedly just sticking to the script. It's not a real feeling.

He still annoys her, though, and he's far too keen on deciding what should happen – being him following her everywhere, including right into her bed - and manipulating events so that there's no alternative but to go along with it. (Except the bed part. He's never in any way implied she has to go along with that.) She definitely doesn't like that.

So. What does she like? His intelligence: the way he thinks and theorises about her cases, letting – helping - her solve them faster. The sex, definitely, the hard bulk and the edge of danger and the knowledge that, soon, she can go further into the forbidden than she's been able to for a very long time because she can trust him to stop. And she liked the silliness, the humour, the conversation of last night.

Conversely, she doesn't like a lot of other things. She doesn't like being manipulated. She doesn't like being played. She doesn't like that he can make her mad so easily, take away her control of herself. She doesn't need to be protected, or taken care of, or suffocated. And she very definitely will not like it if he starts trying to be possessive for real. She doesn't want someone around all – or even most – of the time. She needs space. She doesn't want someone trying to be part of her life, delving into her past. Been there, done that, trashed the T-shirt. She doesn't want a relationship. She's quite happy to be half out the door. The only door she needs to walk through is the one with the corpse behind it.

She ponders for a while, alone in the small puddle of soft light. She wants the sex, but not the intimacy that is so often demanded along with it. She hasn't time for or inclination to an in-depth relationship, and even if she did she wouldn't choose a rich playboy who won't be there for ever, alpha bad-boy or not. If it comes to it, she'd rather have no-one than make that sort of a mistake. It's not as if she isn't used to having no-one, and if her dreams are better, hotter, now, based on the big, muscular reality currently deeply asleep in her bed, well, sweet dreams are made of this, and who is she to disagree? She'll have her dreams, long after the man himself is gone.

She circles round her own uncertainty, never getting close to the heart of her indecision. Unconsciously, unknowingly, she's building up the walls that allow her to hide herself away, keep her heart and soul undamaged, and preserve the life she's constructed: where the only thing she needs or wants to care about is standing for the dead. She's quite deliberately ignoring the flashes that she's had of the man behind the mask, the glimpses of someone real. She's seen the uncertainty she causes him, her ability to hurt him, but she won't accept it; she's heard the words and the undertones that should tell her, if she only listened, that he's already one step beyond a brief affair. She can't afford to believe in any of it. Fairytales are for small children: cops deal only with hard reality. Hard reality forced her to become a cop.

Deep inside, trapped within her ever-thickening walls, a small smidgeon of self-awareness tries to tell her that actually she's scared. Scared to face the truth that her life is a lonely road rapidly reaching the buffers of burnout. Scared to face up to the fact that she's turning her back on her friend and her father and her colleagues and any possibility of something new in favour of dealing with the dead. Scared to know that she deals almost exclusively, now, with the dead because they demand nothing from her that she isn't willing and able to give: they demand everything from her and so there's nothing left to give anyone else. No need to take a chance, no need to risk yourself, no possibility of getting hurt. People who care, get hurt. She doesn't listen to that voice. She never does, and every time she doesn't listen it slips a little further away, its cry a little weaker.

She curls into the couch, puts out the light, closes her eyes, reluctant to think any further. Shortly she slips back into sleep, free now to move restlessly in her sleep as she always does.

* * *

Castle hadn't fallen asleep, still thinking matters over some time after Beckett seemed to be wholly dead to the world, still, perforce, cuddled into him. He hadn't had any intention of letting go of her, and therefore hadn't, nor of leaving so quickly. He'll need to go eventually, but he intends to leave a note when he does, explaining the need for him to be home at breakfast. He doesn't let his daughter down. But for now, he's quite content to drift into sleep, clutching _his_ Beckett, satisfied that he's given her plenty of reasons to want him to stay, shown her that he's the drug she needs.

He wakes suddenly, chilled and shaky, more of the half-remembered nightmares lurking in the shadows. It had been the big man again, menacing; aggressively jabbing at an unseen woman – how could he be sure that in his dream it was a woman, if they were unseen? But he's certain it was – laying down the law: the dingy reality that governs the theatre: do as I say or be fired. Whether it's legal, decent, honest or moral – or absolutely none of the above. (_It didn't happen, Ricky. It was just a bad dream. Don't cry, kiddo. It's okay._)

He reaches for Beckett, who's unaccountably escaped his grasp, looking for her warm reality to chase away the nightmare, and is shocked out the last shreds of sleep when he can't find her there. Peering at his watch shows it's four a.m., and the bed around him empty, no light, no sound in the apartment. She can't have gone, surely? Not even Beckett would go to work at four a.m. A maggot of unease wriggles through his mind. She wouldn't just have got up and left him behind to go to work, would she? If a body had dropped, she'd have woken him. Surely she would? He gets up, slips into his boxers and shirt – Beckett's apartment is not terribly warm – and quietly exits the room to search for Beckett and then bring her back to where he wants her.

It only takes him one comprehensive sweep through her living room to find her, despite the gloom, curled into a corner of her couch and fast asleep; smudged eyes and looking very much younger without the focused glare that he's used to seeing when she's awake. He watches for a while, enjoying the view, studying her restless, unceasing movement. She couldn't be described as peaceful, awake or asleep, though she's just as taciturn in sleep as by day.

Still, he's unimpressed that she's out here, to say the least. Why's she sleeping on her own couch, instead of curled into him like she had been, like she should be? Well, he can fix that. He gathers her up, not without a little effort: despite his strength and her slimness she's tall, and she carries a reasonable amount of muscle herself; and carries her back through to the bedroom. She starts to rouse, settles back and curls an arm around his neck to snuggle in, never fully wakes. Castle lays her gently down, drops his shirt and slides back into bed, spooned against her and arm over her midriff. He's left her robe on, he realises, but he doesn't want to wake her and he's pretty sure that undressing her will, not least because he's a little mad that she was gone when he woke (he knows this is entirely unreasonable but he doesn't care because she is _his_ now – surely after three times she must be? - and running away is simply not in the game plan) and he might just decide to show her all the good reasons she should have stayed.

He'll ask her about it, later, and if he doesn't like her reasons… he can convince her otherwise. Try to convince her. He sets his watch to wake him at a time conducive to reaching his loft early enough to shower and then have breakfast with Alexis, and then slips back into slumber, Beckett safely in his arms. He doesn't dream again, once she's there.

It turns out that Beckett's own alarm is set to a time that Castle would rather not see from this end of the day, though it's only a few moments before his would have chimed. It also appears that his continued presence was not expected. It's not entirely clear that it's welcomed, either, though he has a strong suspicion that nothing other than a hot shower and strong coffee is welcomed by Beckett in the morning. He suddenly realises that she puts in the hours at both beginning and end of the day, burning both ends of the candle for the corpses. He wonders how long she can keep doing that, and remembers Esposito's words. _We all know she's heading for burnout_. At rifle-shot speed, he thinks. He smiles sleepily. He'll stop that dash to burnout. She'll have something else to focus on. Him. Three times is the charm, and they've been together three separate times. She's addicted, even if she doesn't know it.

"You're still here." Beckett's clear tones cut right through his becoming-predatory musings. "Shouldn't you have gone home?" Castle smirks with his best celebrity everyone-loves-me expression, and watches Beckett's pre-caffeine irritation rise as she slides out of bed, still enveloped in the robe.

"You didn't seem to want to let go of me." He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Light the fuse…

"I didn't want to let go of _you_? Wasn't me imitating a boa constrictor." Something evidently occurs to her. "And how come I was in bed anyway? I got up. I was" – she stops. Castle stands up, and stretches. Beckett regards his flexing muscles with disfavour, instead of being distracted.

"You were asleep on the couch. You'd have woken with a crick in your neck." He grins smugly, and takes an unobtrusive step in Beckett's direction. "So I took you back to bed." Pause. "Where you should have been." And… stand well back, in case of fireworks. Metaphorically.

"Where I should have been?" If she's furious, she's not showing one iota of it. Her voice is very cool. All her barriers are in place. "And where might that be?"

"In bed with me, of course." He prowls a little closer. "If you're not going to stay put, I'll need to work out a way of keeping you put." And another step towards her, not just physically. "Your handcuffs should do it."

The sharp intake of breath and the green flare in her eyes tells him far more than he thinks she would like him to know. Dark desire rises up in him instantly: the thought of Beckett handcuffed and stretched out and open to him: giving him complete control. So he kisses her, because there's not enough time to explore where that admission could take them now, and there's barely time to explore her mouth. When he's sure he's left her stupefied and taken her far-too-sharp mind off what she might just have revealed, he pulls back. He tries not to show Beckett how much effort it takes to do that rather than push the robe off her shoulders and carry on down, but judging from the dazed, cat-and-cream expression on her face she's guessed it anyway. He steps back before his last small vestige of control snaps.

"I need to get home. Just think about what I said, Detective, about staying where I put you." She's staring at him like he's her first cup of coffee of the day and biting her lip. He's sure she doesn't know she's doing it. _Got you, Beckett. I see you_. He hurriedly dresses. Any more of this discussion and he won't be going anywhere for a while. "See you later."

It's not until he's halfway home in the cab, with a sulky dawn rising over Manhattan, that he realises he'd stayed the night. He's never stayed the night.

* * *

Beckett's still staring at the shut door for rather too long a while after she's heard the elevator bell that means that Castle is safely gone. Eventually she manages to shake herself out of the state she's in and forces herself into the hottest shower she can stand. It doesn't help anything, but she hates cold showers. Every slide of her body wash reminds her of just how Castle's hands and mouth had made her feel. Each time, she thinks about how good it would be if she took the next step into the water. Each time, his words echo through her head, and slither down her nerves, and trigger all the dreams she's had. She's still trying to squash down the memory when she hits her desk.

But focus on the cases easily removes any other considerations once she's alone, even if it's only paperwork. When Ryan and Esposito arrive, an hour later, for the start of shift, she's already deeply engrossed. She's so lost in thought she doesn't see or hear them. It's probably the only reason she doesn't kill them for sniggering when they see the mug full of coffee – not the previous paper cup of caffeinated machine sludge – on her desk. Sadly, she can't block them out for ever.

"Yo, Beckett. What's that on your desk?"

"Paperwork," she says blandly. She knows what they mean, but she's not that easy.

"In the mug, Beckett."

"Coffee."

"Thought you'd sworn never to touch that – what d'ya call it? – oh yeah – ridiculously inappropriate distraction?" Esposito's smirk is so wide she could tie it in a bow.

Ryan chips in his two-cents worth. "Along with making a few comments about the man who got it here – spoilt smug arrogant playboy throwing his money around, yeah?"

Back to Esposito, perfect hand-off to the other half of the tag-team. "So if you're drinking his coffee, Beckett, does that mean you're getting' closer to the man?" He starts to laugh. Ryan's already snickering. Beckett, however, doesn't blink. Standard bullpen banter doesn't faze her in the slightest.

"You have gotta be kidding, Espo. I'd rather enter you and Ryan in the next Manhattan's Best-Dressed Cop competition." Fortunately, neither Ryan nor Espo notice that she's actually not answered him. She hasn't even lied. The amusement value from entering Ryan and Espo into a Best-Dressed anything competition would be more or less endless. Both men splutter. Unfortunately, they don't leave off.

"So why've you abandoned your principles, Beckett? I mean, drinking the coffee, it's one step down the primrose path." She looks at Ryan quizzically.

"What? I went to Catholic school. You don't forget some things." She glares. It has no effect at all. "It's the first step, Beckett. Can't pretend you hate his guts if you're swigging his coffee." Esposito nods vigorously.

"Yeah, Beckett. You'll need to be nicer to him. It's just rude to drink his coffee and still mess with him like you do." The glare increases in intensity. "Just sayin'."

"Are you boys intending to do any work today or are you just here for a chat?" The change in tone tells them that they've gone far enough. They retreat to their own desks, alert for any further opportunities to amuse themselves and wind up Beckett.

It's lucky they don't know it's the second mugful. She'd never live that down. She'll be lucky if they stop with the ragging about this by a week next Wednesday. And seeing as they're all best buddies with Castle, she'll have to listen to him crowing about it too. Probably for much, much longer. And that thought takes her right back to what Castle had said just before he left and suddenly there's a flare of heat some way south of her waist and she really cannot afford to be distracted like this. But the sharp talons of her own desires are extended now, and no matter how much she concentrates on the never-ending paperwork they never quite retract fully. She keeps a fraction of her attention on the bullpen around her, expecting Castle, and at the end of the day she's quite unreasonably annoyed that he didn't show up. Not that she lets herself know it. She attributes her irritation to the paperwork and the inability to make any progress with any of the old, cold cases it represents, and goes home, long after shift ended, thoroughly frustrated with the day.

* * *

Castle spent the second half of the cab ride; his hasty, cool, shower; and not a little part of breakfast with Alexis trying frantically to work out what happened last night to make him stay over. He never stays over. He has a strict policy of never staying over. That way he never gets trapped into anything: no-one can ever be misled into thinking it's more than a one-night stand, or at best a brief affair. He gets what he wants, whoever it was gets what she wants, and he walks away, no harm, no foul. He sees Alexis off, clears up breakfast, and retreats to his study. He needs to think. He should have thought a week ago, and he didn't, couldn't, too appalled at what he nearly did to think _why_ he nearly did it.

_Okay, stop and think, Rick. What the hell is going on here?_ He stayed over. He never, ever does that. He almost, almost tried to force kisses on her, when she didn't want them. He never, ever, does that, either. He's been chasing her for seven weeks, since the first moment he saw her; following her around for six; he's been with her three times and he's still not sure that she's actually likes him at all. Most of the time she's behaved as if she hates him: it's only recently that her attitude has softened merely to irritation. And yet when she's _with_ him it's a firestorm: neither of them have any control at all: it's hot and hard and desperate and it's only when the first round's over that there's any chance at all of slowing it down, dialling back, regulating their actions so that he can find out what really turns her on. (He does. He turns her on.)

That is not helping. He wrenches his mind away from the vision of Beckett naked and in bed. He has to get on top (_bad word choice, Rick. Very bad._) of this before it mutates into something that he doesn't need and doesn't want. Okay. So what does he want? He wants to finish the story. He wants Beckett in his bed right here – his bed? What? He doesn't want anyone in his bed in the loft but him. But she'd fit, very nicely, and he might not have quite so many bruises because there'd be more space for her to move without knocking into him, and he'd still know that she was there. _Stop this, Rick. Stop right now. Focus_. He wants Beckett. Why? Well. Why indeed? Because she's not boring. Because she's unbelievably hot. Because she pretends she doesn't need him. (That'll change, though. He'll make her admit she needs him; that she cares.) Because he wants her, and he always gets what he wants, for as long as he wants it, and she's not playing his game. Which is all very circular and doesn't help at all. Besides which, it's all pointless. He wants her, and wants her story, and needs to write his story, and that is it. He tells himself that there's nothing more to it, and doesn't think at all about why he wants her to care. Solving her story will ensure that she comes to him and there'll be no more of this uncertainty. That's why he's behaving like this. He's been uncertain. Well, he doesn't have to be now. Three times is the charm, and now she'll come to him, whenever he – and she - wants. She will.

And just to prove that this is simply another affair, and he doesn't need to be uncertain, he won't go to the precinct or see Beckett until another body drops. She'll be eager to see him, then; she'll have missed him. He doesn't need to hang round her neck. He doesn't need to think about her, either. He's Rick Castle, and he's never uncertain about women at all.

His resolve lasts all the way till dinner.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers, guest and otherwise._


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: Don't stand so close to me**

Castle has written almost all day, turning out chapter after chapter of well-polished phrases and exciting action. He doesn't need Gina, or Paula with her PR stunts, or sales figures to tell him that this will be a success. The words simply leap out of his mind and on to the page without let or hindrance. He's so far ahead of schedule he can barely believe it: for once there's no need for anyone to chase him for unmet deadlines or unwritten sections. At this rate he'll be ready for publication in September, which for him will be something of a record. Nikki Heat is going to be far bigger than Storm; he can feel that. But eventually he draws to a stop, done with publishable Nikki for the day, and wanting to let the next episodes ferment in the back of his head for a little while, till they settle into shape.

He's rather pleased with himself, and not a little smug. He hasn't missed being at the precinct at all. No. Okay, so Beckett popped into his head every time he described Nikki, every time he wrote a line of her dialogue, but he didn't need to be following her round to write. She's perfectly imprinted on his brain, just where he needs her to be….

What the _fuck_?

He can't have Beckett imprinted on his brain. That's not the plan. That can't happen. It's just because of the character, just because she's his current inspiration. (He doesn't remember that this never happened with Clara Strike) It'll cool off. Just because he wants to keep her for now, doesn't mean it won't fade. But before it does, they'll have a very, very good time.

Which brings him right back to the fervid imaginings of very first thing this morning, before he'd come home. He'd left before she'd got dressed, so he doesn't know what she's wearing today. Underneath, that is. He would bet on another highly professional and completely unrevealing button down with dress pants, on the outside. It rapidly occurs to him that he could simply call her, ask her over, and find out. Leaving her alone until a new body drops is forgotten, lost in the fire of his lustful thoughts, as if it had never been.

Another thought arrives in his brain before he manages to locate his phone. He hasn't called Dr Murray yet. He'll just do that first. Might as well get that moving. Clark Murray can be very busy. He finally finds his phone.

"Clark? Hey. It's Rick. I've got a little problem I think you can help me with. A puzzle. Wanna play?"

"Sure, Rick. What is it this time? Decomposition rates? Blowfly breeding? Weird and wonderful poisons? Please, Rick, no more heads in microwaves, though. That was messy."

"No, not this time. But it was really cool, wasn't it? Didn't you like it? Especially when I" –

"No. Not at all."

"Clark," Castle's voice turns serious. "I got a cold case for you. I need you to look at some photos, see what you think."

"Rick, what are you messing with this time? Cold case? Photos? This isn't your usual style. What's going on?" Castle scrambles for an acceptable lie, and decides to mix it with enough truth to make it palatable and believable.

"You know I'm shadowing a detective at the Twelfth Precinct, for research?"

"Yes?"

"Yeah. Like when I wrote Clara Strike."

"Ah. And what does that mean?"

"It means I found a new inspiration, Clark. It's gonna be huge. Even bigger than Storm." Castle enthuses for another few minutes.

"Fascinating as your loquacity is, Rick, I have appointments. Why are you looking at a cold case, and why do you need me to look at it? And most importantly, what on earth is its relevance to this 'Nikki Heat' character?" Dr Murray clearly has an irrelevant thought. "What sort of a name is 'Nikki Heat', anyway?"

"One that will sell books. C'mon, Clark. D'you wanna play or not?" Dr Murray shakes his head, unseen. Rick Castle full of enthusiasm is almost unstoppable, and generally irresistible. And whatever this new bee in his bonnet might be, it sounds fairly interesting. Rick's enthusiasms are rarely boring. Short-lived, and frequently messy, but not boring.

"Okay, I'm in. But I'm a bit busy right now. You in a hurry for answers?"

Castle thinks. He is. He wants the answers yesterday, or a week ago. But he also likes Clark Murray, and doesn't want to rush him and maybe not get the right answers. "I'd rather you took your time, gave me the best answer you can."

"Rick, are you going to tell me what this is about?"

"Yeah, I'll let you know when I bring you over the file. Thanks. Bye."

Right. That's got that moving. He knew Clark would come through. He can't resist a professional challenge. If there are answers to find, Clark will find them. And if there's nothing to find, he'll find that too. Step one to keeping Beckett, complete. He smiles slowly, and considers how she might show her appreciation.

His contemplations are rudely interrupted by inquiries about dinner, and he realises that he'd better do something about that, before his family swarms around him, ravenous. He finds plenty of ingredients in the fridge for stir fry and concentrates hard enough not to include a couple of fingers in the julienned vegetables. Stir fry has, he notes, the considerable advantage of taking almost no time to cook, and not much longer to eat. After dinner he'll call Beckett, ask her over. If he _asks_, he's sure she'll come. Dinner largely passes him by, lost in his reveries.

He hasn't just forgotten that he wasn't going to contact her till she did him, he's forgotten that he doesn't bring his affairs home.

* * *

Beckett's just got home, and is rather disconsolately looking at her empty fridge and trying to find her pile of takeout menus, when her phone chimes. Looking at the screen, and caller ID, it's Castle. What's he want at this time? She wants peace and quiet and solitude. She swipes on her phone, already irritated before she speaks.

"What?" she snaps.

"That's not friendly, Beckett," Castle's far-too-sexy voice oozes over her and pools right where she doesn't want it. She briefly considers the childish response of _Don't care_, but thinks better of it.

"What do you want, Castle? I'm not in the mood for your persiflage."

She might as well have been performing a striptease in front of him. Her use of language goes straight to his groin. _So clever_. He lo – _admires_ her vocabulary. He wants her, right now.

"Would you like to come over?"

"No," she replies automatically and still snappishly. She's tired, irritable and hungry, and mild headache is settling around her temples. Sexy voices pooling south of her navel are not sufficient to overcome any of that. She doesn't want to go anywhere further than the door, when she's decided on and ordered takeout and it arrives. Eating might help. There's a short pause.

"Have you just got home?" When she doesn't bother answering, there's a new question. "Have you even eaten?"

"I'm just getting something." Hold on. She doesn't answer to Writer-Boy. She doesn't answer to anyone, outside work. Another good reason not to get into a relationship. People think they can make demands of her, try to manage the way she runs her life. She's had enough of that. "What business is it of yours anyway?" She doesn't even try to make that polite.

"If you haven't eaten, there's food here. If you came over." Tempting. But not that tempting. Takeout, Tylenol and sleep are a lot more tempting.

"No. I'm tired."

"Maybe if you hadn't spent twelve hours in the precinct you wouldn't be so tired." Oh shit, that was a mistake. He's smooth, suave and sophisticated, always in control of affairs. How does he so consistently manage to say the wrong thing at the wrong time to Beckett? Sounding like he's criticising her work ethic is hardly likely to go well. "Was there a new case, and you didn't tell me?" He's desperately trying to cover up the first sentence. It doesn't work. He can hear Beckett's frazzled temper snap without even needing the phone connection.

"I have a job. Just because you're rich enough to sit around doing nothing all day doesn't mean the rest of the world can."

Castle is rapidly losing his own temper thanks to that nasty comment. If he were less mad, he might wonder how it is that Beckett can so readily – without even trying – catch him on the raw. She doesn't know what she's talking about. He hadn't always been rich, or anything like it, and he works his ass off to write good books. He tries very hard, most of the time, not to remember how it had been when he was a child. (It's why he gives his mother everything she wants to buy, and only ever teases her very gently about it. There were a lot of times that she couldn't buy anything at all, except what was absolutely necessary for her child.) But he's not going to say that. He's not going to show her his history. It's not relevant to who he is now. The sheer hypocrisy of wanting to know all of her story without revealing any of his doesn't even start to enter his thoughts.

"So you tell me why your job means you spend twice as long in the precinct as your shift? You're in before the boys and you never go home. You haven't even eaten. You don't have to do that, but you do. Wanna tell me why?" He's only just not shouting. She won't take care of herself. (_It's okay, kiddo. I'm not hungry. You eat up now._) She has to take better care of herself.

"That's my decision, not yours. Butt out, Writer-Boy. I don't need you pretending you want to take care of me." Buzz. She's put the phone down on him. _She's put the fucking phone down on him._ Nobody puts the phone down on him. Castle's normally unruffled temper finally gives out.

"Mother? Mother!"

"Yes, darling?"

"I have to go out. Will you stay with Alexis?"

"Of course, kiddo." She looks carefully at her son. "Is something wrong?"

"No, just some business I need to take care of." He manufactures a grin, though there are too many teeth in it for good humour. "Try not to drink all my best wine." And he's gone. Martha looks at the door swinging shut behind him and wonders what on earth has bitten his butt. Ever since he started on this new book he's been acting strangely. Oh well. Motherly instincts will let her work it out, in due time.

When someone knocks on the door Beckett assumes it's her pizza, though normally they're not quite so peremptory. However, when she checks through the peephole it's Castle, looking very angry. He can just stay outside, then. She doesn't want a fight, she wants her pizza, a soda and her bed. She'd rather have wine but wine and Tylenol don't mix. She goes back to her couch and the no-brain-required movie, comfortably changed into in a sloppy T-shirt and sleep shorts, that she's desultorily watching because she doesn't want to read till after the Tylenol kicks in. Her phone cheeps. It's Castle. She declines the call. It cheeps again. It's Castle, again. She declines the call, again. This continues for three rounds, when she switches it off. There's blessed silence. With luck, he's gone home. With even more luck, he won't show up at the precinct unless and until she has to call him with the next case. (She wouldn't even do that right now, except it's orders.) She takes a few deep, soothing breaths and tries to relax, cast off the irritation.

A little while later, a discreet tap on her door turns out, when Beckett glares suspiciously through the peephole, to be her takeout pizza. Unfortunately, when she opens the door, it also turns out to be (definitely _not_ her) takeout arrogant Writer-Boy, who pushes in without so much as an excuse-me while she's getting her purse to pay the delivery boy. Dirty rotten scoundrel must have hung around quietly until opportunity presented itself. More manipulation to make events fall out his way. So she won't rise to his bait. She'll just ignore him. He won't leave if she simply says so, and she's too tired to physically push him out the door, but he won't do anything more than try to talk even if he stands there all night. She can be perfectly sure of that.

Beckett pays the delivery boy, who's looking very much as if he'd rather be anywhere but here, preferably ten minutes ago, closes the door, ignores Castle completely and returns to her couch and her soda with the pizza. The Tylenol is not having much effect any more. She keeps all her attention strictly on the movie and the pizza.

It takes approximately half the pizza, which Beckett appears to be inhaling, before Castle has his annoyance under enough control to speak.

"I'm still here." Silence. "Beckett, you know I'm here. I'm not going any place till you talk to me." Beckett carries on inhaling pizza and soda and doesn't so much as turn her head. It's not even that good a movie. (He's seen it. It has no redeeming features at all. Especially since Beckett's fully focused on Colin Firth in a wet shirt.) Okay, so she's able to block out anything she doesn't want to think about. He knows that. What's he doing here anyway? So she didn't want to come over, so what? And then she hadn't left the precinct until she was exhausted and she hadn't eaten and why the hell does he care about that anyway? What's her inability to take care of herself got to do with addicting her to him and keeping her with him? He doesn't know the answer to that, so he ignores it, rationalising it by thinking that if she's tired and hungry she won't be up for any of the more enjoyable ways he could relax her, and tells himself that that's the only reason that he cares. (_You eat up now._)

He lasts only until Beckett's swallowed the last slice of pizza and stands up to clear the mess away. She still hasn't bothered to acknowledge his existence in any way at all. It's just like the first time he screwed up around her. Then she was angry. Now she's just indifferent. Well, he definitely is not indifferent. He's made her beg and writhe and scream and she is _not_ going to pretend she's indifferent and not even talk to him.

When Beckett's finished tidying up Castle has parked his oversized self on her couch. Fine. She was going to bed anyway. She makes for her bedroom, still ignoring him.

"If you go to bed I'll just follow you till you talk to me."

"I didn't invite you over, so I don't have to talk to you."

She's quite astoundingly tense at the idea of talking to him, he notices. In fact, she hasn't consciously said a single personal thing inside the precinct or out since she'd told him about her mother, except at dinner to say where she'd been at college, he realises with a jolt. That had only been because he'd asked a direct question. And… she hadn't intended to show up to dinner, and if it hadn't been for Lanie she wouldn't have done. It dawns on him that she doesn't want to have told him anything: that she'd erase it from his memory if she could; that in fact she would probably erase herself from his existence if she could; that he hadn't been mistaken when he'd thought that she'd put up a barrier. She certainly has. Started putting it up the moment she'd left after mentioning her mother and has, he is almost certain, only been reinforcing it every instant since. He doesn't say anything, waiting her out.

"You can leave now." More indifference. Castle's getting bored of that game very quickly. He's really not good at patience. He needs to break this shell, if he's ever going to get what he wants.

"Shan't. Why wouldn't you come over?"

"Didn't want to. Why don't you just listen to what I say? I'm tired. Go away and let me go to bed."

"Not till I've tucked you in," he grins. "Someone ought to." Yet again, it's the wrong thing to say. Beckett's face twists bitterly, not seeing any humour in his speech at all. She's spitting words at him.

"I don't want someone pretending to take care of me and suffocating me. I don't want a relationship." The venom in that last word would have done credit to a king cobra. Castle rapidly recasts his next sentence to achieve what he wants, ignoring for the moment just how much those two sentences bite. He'll think about her little admission some other time.

"Well, that's just fine, because I don't want to take care of you." And quite, quite astonishingly that statement seems to have worked. It must be the very first time in his whole adult life that a woman's told him she doesn't want a relationship (especially with him) and actually, genuinely meant it. It's certainly the first time he's felt it necessary to tell a woman he _doesn't_ want to take care of her in order to keep her. Usually it's exactly the reverse. At least it would be, if he ever had to try at all. The tension's flowed out of Beckett's shoulders and she's paused in her bedroom doorway. The only teeny, tiny problem, which he'll fix sometime later, is that he's lying by omission _and_ commission through his perfect, perfectly gritted, teeth. He doesn't care that he's lying. Ethics are not relevant when it comes to keeping Beckett. There's another pregnant pause.

"And now we got that settled, come here." It's not a request. Beckett looks at him, quirking an eyebrow, which mutates, as she looks at his hungry smile, into a slow, sleepy, yawn-split smile of her own.

"Still tired, Castle. Only one direction I'm going." She gets two paces inside her bedroom door before he's caught her. She pushes ineffectually at him, too tired to be able to make her point with force. Of course, if she weren't so tired she wouldn't need to make this point, she'd be playing a very much more enjoyable game. Especially as he doesn't want to have a relationship, or take care of her. Perfect. They'll solve the cases and find justice for the dead, faster, better. If they enjoy themselves along the way, no harm, no foul. And then it'll be done. She pushes ineffectually again, yawning. Castle's reaction is to swing her up into his arms, take a couple of long strides, and drop her on the bed.

"You are tired." Beckett glares, the glare not noticeably diluted by her exhaustion.

"Told you so." She wriggles under her covers. "Night." She's not entirely surprised when Castle sits down on the edge of the bed, puts both hands round her face, leans down and kisses her firmly, leisurely possessiveness fully on display.

"That's how you say goodnight, Beckett." She supposes that that's rather more sociable than the mere words. "Till tomorrow." And then he's gone, which proves, she thinks, that she's got what she wants. Someone who isn't going to try to get involved, or fuss over her, or stifle her.

Someone, in fact, who won't force her to face up to the truth about her life.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. Please keep letting me know what you think._

_Many reviews are speculating on the reasons for their behaviour and their back stories. All these will be revealed, before the story ends. In the meantime, rest assured that there are reasons behind apparently odd behaviour and complex issues. Keep speculating!_


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Been a juju boy**

Castle whistles down a cab outside Beckett's building and spends the entire ride home plotting, gets back to his own loft and goes to his study to plot some more. He can't decide whether he's angry, intrigued, or appalled by Beckett's current attitude. (Obsessed goes without saying. As does aroused.) A considerable piece of focused thinking is quite clearly required, if he wants this to be a comfortably conducted affair, now that he's returned to his normal unruffled calm. So. Where has he got to? She doesn't like being told what to do. (except, perhaps, he thinks, in some very defined, private, circumstances which he intends to explore in some detail in the very near future) She never gives up control. (except, again, in private circumstances) She doesn't like being, or want to be, taken care of. She doesn't want a relationship, and has said so in the bluntest possible terms. She doesn't, in fact, want anything from anyone, whether she might need it or not. She's white-hot under his body, but she can take or leave him all the rest of the time. She hates talking in general, and hates more revealing anything at all about herself. She's converted all her feelings about her mother's death into a hard-edged focus on solving murders for other people. And the sum total of all of that is that she has no life at all outside the job, and she doesn't even care.

Which is what he wants, isn't it? He doesn't want a romance, he wants an affair: no strings, no permanence, no entanglements. Doesn't he? That's why he's solving her case for her, so that there's nothing that can interfere, no pain that might play on his heartstrings. He just wants an affair.

Doesn't he?

There's a poisonous little voice in his head that keeps telling him that actually he doesn't know what he wants. Because she's hurt him, again, without even noticing. She doesn't want him – what were her exact words? – _pretending to take care of her._ And he knows that he was lying when he said he didn't want to take care of her. He knows he's solving her case not just to prove how clever, how valuable, he is; how much he's worth to her, but because he saw her pain, and he wants to fix it. Fixing it will bring her to him, and keep her there, and make her happy. (_I can make it better. I can_)

She doesn't want a relationship. That same nasty little voice is telling him that he doesn't know what he wants there either. He's not into relationships. But she's only got more fascinating with time: her job, her mind, her body, her story, everything. He wants all of her, not just her bed or his. But she doesn't want to give it, and even though he wants all of her he isn't at all sure that he wants to break the habit of some considerable time and have a longish affair, let alone a relationship. Though he definitely wants far more than the current succession of one-night stands. She's his now. Even if she doesn't want to admit it.

Yet. She doesn't want to admit it, _yet_.

Well. Seems like he hasn't a clue about anything, which is not a problem from which he normally suffers when it comes to women. But… he suddenly smiles, perfectly happily. It's not actually a problem at all. He doesn't need to have a clue. He just needs to play along. If she doesn't want to be taken care of, if she doesn't want a relationship, then he simply won't push it, unless and until he decides he needs to do so. She'll get used to him being around, and gradually she'll let him in. Even if she doesn't, when he's solved her case she'll come to him, because he'll have made it better, and then she'll share. He doesn't need to do anything just now, just enjoy what _is_ on offer and slowly boil his frog. He'll still get what he wants, in the end. And along the way, he won't need to worry about repressing any impulses to take care of her or have a relationship with her or that he'll get overly involved, because that'll all come naturally to a fully fruited relationship as she sees more of him.

He's perfectly satisfied with the conclusions of his thinking as he makes a coffee and retires back to his study, pausing just before he opens his laptop, publishable Nikki and Rook nicely fermented and ready to pour out as he'd hoped when he put them away before dinner. But first, he simply wants to run over the interesting, comfortable sensation of Beckett in his arms all night (well, nearly all night) and the interesting, but ultimately very uncomfortable, sensation of kissing her without being able to fall into bed with her.

And, he realises sharply, by not doing so, not pushing for more, he didn't behave like those other men, who would never have accepted silence, or tiredness, or any excuse, or any good reason, not to push and force and take what they wanted. He isn't that man. He really isn't, and the sudden reassurance of that knowledge gives him confidence. Maybe with Beckett, he can be who he is, explore the darker waters that she's intimated she likes, that he knows he likes, without any risk that he'll overstep and become that man. _Because_ she doesn't need him, any way around. She'll never agree to anything she doesn't want, because she doesn't need him for her career or her PR or her status or his money or the sheer kudos of being seen with him. In a strange way, that gives him – them – complete freedom: because they're on an equal footing. He's nearly lightheaded with the realisation. He doesn't need to worry about her saying yes if actually she doesn't want to but thinks she needs to or has to or ought to. She simply – won't. And if he tried to insist – not that he ever would, because he _is not_ that man – she'd shoot him, and with Espo, Ryan and Lanie dispose of the body where it would never be found.

Maybe, Castle thinks, maybe he can be who he is in the precinct, and be who he is with Beckett. Maybe he can be real, not the PR construct that he's made his own every time he leaves his own front door. Maybe there's more to him than that bored, spoilt, arrogant celebrity. That persona's useless in the face of death. In the precinct, he can use his mind – he's a long way from stupid, but focused intelligence isn't what the fans are looking for – and his abilities, without it damaging his PR image. Which he does need to keep, at least partly, to sell books. With Beckett – well. Let's not think about that, at least if he wants to achieve any publishable writing tonight.

He turns to his laptop and begins, words flooding out of his fingers on to the page. All the time, unnoticed in the back of his brain, the image of Beckett snuggled against him settles in and comforts him.

* * *

He's woken by his phone. As he shakes sleep from his head, he realises that it's not the ringtone he's carefully programmed in for Beckett. (Ride of the Valkyries. Desperately clichéd, but still appropriate until he can find a song that includes murder in the title. Though Murder on the Dancefloor just didn't cut it.) Ugh. It's too early, whatever time it is. He'd written too late, too much, and in the too-bright light of another Manhattan morning he's petulantly sure that it'll need more editing than he's really up for. It's too early, and who the hell is calling at – oh. It's nearly ten. He vaguely remembers getting up to have breakfast with Alexis, seeing her off to school, and then thinking that he'd just have a little more sleep before going to the precinct to see what's going on and finding some more inspiration.

"Rick Castle," he says, in smooth tones, because it's sure to be someone in front of whom he needs to keep up the persona.

"Ricky." Oh God. He knows that voice. "Kitten, I'm in New York. Isn't that wonderful? I'm coming right over to see you. Have you missed me?" He knows that tone, too. And any time previously, he'd have been perfectly happy with that. Meredith knows what he likes, and is prepared to play along. Now, however, he simply isn't interested. He has absolutely no desire to play with Meredith at all any more.

"Meredith…" he says faintly. She just rolls right over him. She never has listened to him.

"I'll be with you in a few minutes, Ricky. I'm already in the cab. Get ready, kitten." She cuts the call. He mentally prepares himself for what is sure to be an unpleasant scene, and wonders whether he should find a cup for protection of his assets.

He's not wrong. He's barely opened the door to Meredith when she launches herself at him. She's instantly unhappy when he holds her at a distance, changing to spoilt-child impending-tantrum when he starts to explain.

"Meredith, I'm not going to bed with you." She pouts, beautifully. She's always beautiful, in that slightly petulant, celebutante, wannabe actress manner. But now he wants something entirely different: spark and fire and professional woman who's not artificial in any way at all.

"Kitten, don't play hard to get. I don't wanna waste any time." He hates her calling him kitten.

"I'm not. I am not sleeping with you." She looks astonished. (her last Botox must be wearing off, he thinks unkindly. She's actually got an expression.)

"But Ricky, it's not as if you've got someone else. What's the problem?" She looks as if she's about to suggest the only sort of problems she can imagine would stop him. "Can't you get it" –

"No problem." He's not about to tell Meredith, who is wholly incapable of discretion, that there is someone else. Especially not a someone who barely thinks she's with him. He is perfectly sure that any hint of Beckett on page six and she'd try to kill him and then emigrate to Rio, or a tropical island with no communications, or Alaska. Anywhere he couldn't find her, in fact. "I don't want to."

"I can fix that." Meredith swirls her tongue over her lips. After Beckett, it's about as erotic as a dead dog.

"Meredith." She looks startled at the tone. "No." He's getting angry, and it shows. "We are not doing this. I am not doing this. You need to leave." He recognises the signs of an impending storm, and moves swiftly to open the door and usher her out. When she's safely on the other side of a shut door, he breathes a huge sigh of relief. He's even more relieved when Ride of the Valkyries blares out and there's a case.

* * *

This one is deeply, deeply weird. What's even more weird, though, is Castle's behaviour. He's… skittish. Nervous. And considering that the case involves the potential for blood sacrifices, black magic and all the superstition and conspiracy that even Castle's over-fertile imagination could conjure up, he's not paying nearly the level of attention that he should be. It's all very peculiar. Beckett shrugs mentally and gets on with the job. At least he's not annoying her, just for once.

"My ex-wife flew in last night," he blurts. "Alexis's mother. She came round this morning." Okay, that wasn't what she expected to – what?

"Oh," is all she says, discouragingly. Gossip won't help solve this murder. Unconsciously, she retreats behind her mental shell, turning all her focus on to the corpse. She doesn't need to know anything about his ex-wife. Satisfied there's nothing more to learn for now, she's ready to leave when Castle suddenly returns to this reality and suggests they check his mouth for – a pouch? What now? Espo pulls a nasty little object from the corpse's mouth. Ugh. Voodoo is very much not Beckett's thing. This is New York, not New Orleans or Haiti. Here, dead is dead, and stays dead. She hopes. Zombies are not required. One large, shambling, overly strong presence following her around all the time is quite sufficient. Thinking of which, he's remarkably quiet.

"What's up, Castle?" she asks, once they're on the way back from the scene.

"Meredith," he replies gloomily, and relapses into silence.

Castle doesn't say a word, all the way back to the Twelfth. For someone who spends all his time talking, and mostly trying to seduce her with his words (and she doesn't think about how three times now he's succeeded, because she's been trying very hard not to think how easy and how good it had been to give in, give up, lose control; and trying even harder not to think about how hot his words make her when he's telling her she's his and leaning over to dominate and take her and – No. She is not thinking about this.) she is absolutely amazed to find that he can be quiet. The only time he's been quiet before is when his mouth is otherwise occupied – No. Stop thinking about that, Kate. Focus on the corpse. The only game that matters now is finding the killer.

Beckett says nothing too. She's wholly uninterested in Castle's ex-wives; she's very interested in the corpse. Till they've found the killer, nothing else is relevant. A few way-out theories wouldn't hurt her thinking, but since they don't seem to be arriving with their usual machine-gun rapidity she'll do her own hypothesizing. She's perturbed to realise that the thought gives her no pleasure. It should do. Peace and quiet is what she likes, right? She's been regretting its loss for nearly seven weeks, every moment that Castle doesn't stop talking. Of course she likes the unusual quiet. She runs over the hypotheses in her mind and is even more perturbed to find that it's not as satisfying as it used to be: that she wants to discuss them. With Castle. She shoves that thought away and hypothesizes to herself all the harder.

Her mind submerges into evidence and leads and theories, and by the time she's back at her desk she has a list of matters to be investigated that will keep them all busy for hours.

* * *

A day later it's all progressing okay, though not fast enough for Beckett's liking, when there's sudden noise and fuss and bustle behind her and a shrill statement of _No I am not going to wait downstairs; do you have any idea who pays your salaries? Me and my taxes_ in an unpleasantly sharp and high-pitched tone. She shrugs and assumes it's someone else's problem, feeling sorry for whichever detective has to deal with it. Spoilt rich Manhattanite: she knows the type. It's a bit odd that the noise is approaching her murder board though… and hang on a moment, there's another voice that's vaguely familiar if she could just get past that apologetic tone and why is Castle looking deeply, deeply pained? It all comes together in her head in one perfectly beautiful moment as for the first time ever she sees Castle wholly disconcerted and absolutely off his game. It couldn't get better, she thinks happily, grinning widely at Ryan and Espo, who are equally expansively grinning back – and then it does. This must be his ex-wife.

"Richard," comes the same high pitched, somehow little-girl voice, "over here." Oh, this is just too perfect for words. She's Castle-hunting. And boy oh boy does he look hunted.

"You know her?" grins Esposito, who's clearly making some hefty assumptions about who – or what – this is, and her relationship to - or should that be with? – Castle.

" 'Fraid so," mumbles Castle, who's getting less and less suave with every syllable his ex utters. He should be embarrassed. This over-aged ingénue really, really doesn't seem to have any redeeming features. Well, except if you're male. Then she has at least two.

"Meredith, what a surprise." Yeah, Castle. He really sounds happy about this surprise. His enthusiasm for it could barely melt an ice cube. She supposes it's a nice change – or at least an amusing one – from his frequent bursts of hyperactive bounciness.

"I know, isn't it great? In LA no-one ever just stops by. Don'tcha just love this town?" Surely she can't be that brainless? Castle _married_ this bimbette? She'd thought he had more intelligence than that. Or more taste. She can't resist the reply.

"More and more by the minute," says Beckett sarcastically. It goes right over Meredith's head. Much more satisfyingly, it hits Castle right in the solar plexus, if his pained breath is anything to go by. Oh, this is just so much_fun__**.**_ She hasn't had this much fun since she was eight and at Coney Island. Castle tries to smooth the situation a little.

"Meredith, these are Detectives Ryan, Esposito and Detective Beckett." Meredith eyes up both men and dismisses them as irrelevant. Or more likely, under-walleted. Her eyes stop on Beckett, then move on to Castle. Beckett's social smile acquires a degree of bite. She knows how to deal with this.

"Oh, Beckett. Your new muse. Alexis told me all about it and I simply had to stop by." She stops looking at Castle in favour of a pitying stare at Beckett, but doesn't drop the patronising I-saw-him-first tone. "You know I was his inspiration once." Beckett's not so sure what sort of inspiration that might be. As far as her extensive knowledge of Castle's books goes, he hasn't used a bird-brained shopaholic redhead in any of his books. Although she supposes he could always have gone in for soft porn under a pseudonym. She'll ask him. When he's just taken a drink, for preference.

"Were you now?" Beckett doesn't hide her disbelief. Castle, it seems, clearly recognises the drawn battle line. He looks like he wants to run. Far, far away.

"Still am, from time to time. Right, kitten?" Meredith didn't like the challenge, did she? Beckett expects that she was head cheerleader, too. But -

"Kitten?"

It's perfect, just perfect. He'll never live this down. _Kitten_? She doesn't even try to resist the evil smirk. Every time he annoys her, she can use that. She's never seen him so embarrassed. She's never seen him embarrassed, till now. Ryan and Esposito snort, not at all concealed. From the looks on the boys' faces, he's going to be ragged from one end of the bullpen to the other. Oh, revenge will be sweet. Oh yes. And even better, he knows what's coming, and he can't do anything about it. She's going to get her own back for every single second of irritation he's caused her. She'd hug herself with glee, and giggle, if it weren't so college co-ed. Not appropriate to a mature professional. But her eyes are sparkling with mischief and she simply cannot stop smirking. Every so often she smothers a splutter of laughter.

Castle can read Beckett's thoughts like the headlines in the New York Times on the newsstands. This is going to be dreadful. She'll use this against him for months. And in public there is no way he can stop her. In private, he'll have his revenge. He can see the mildly malicious, wholly mischievous, satisfaction bubbling all over her face. Oh God. He may never recover. He cringes at the thought of the ridicule he'll suffer, up and down the bullpen. He can see it written all over the three cops' faces. By tomorrow there'll be a plush cat from FAO Schwartz stuck on the back of his chair, or worse, a Hello Kitty cushion. Oh God.

Then he thinks for a moment. If – when, definitely when – they do josh him up and down the bullpen – it means he's part of the team. If he weren't, they wouldn't bother, they'd just treat him with civility. He's got a place here. He's really got a place here. And he's done it on his own efforts, no PR, no money applied. (well, except as regards coffee machines) The precinct didn't need him but he's made a place for himself here. He's… he's one of them. He can honestly say he's rarely been happier.

Happiness is marginally diluted when he realises Meredith is still present. As is Alexis, who is looking both unhappy and uncomfortable. He guesses Meredith pulled her out of school again. At least this time they're both still in New York. Meredith's eyeing up the designer bag photo on the murder board, prattling about Sarah Jessica Parker and Sex in the City. There's only one form of Sex in the City he wants to know about and it involves neither Meredith nor Sarah Jessica Parker.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. I really appreciate knowing what you think._


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: I'll do what you want me to do**

Beckett has returned her attention to her murder board, in high good humour with the world. It's such a good day, something will break soon and this case will be solved. She doesn't think much of his ex-wife, though. She's certainly beautiful. Shame she's self-absorbed and vacuous. She recognises the type; all fluff and fashion, probably a real bitch in bed, knows a few – or a lot of – cheap tricks. Still beautiful, though. Long hair. She's not had long hair for years. Ten, in fact. She's not wanted it. She doesn't want it now. And Castle watching his ex without taking his attention off her for a second doesn't matter at all, because she's not up for a relationship. Especially it doesn't matter, she realises with a not-at-all hidden grin, because he's regarding Meredith with the same paralysed panic with which he would regard a grizzly bear growling six inches from his nose. She goes back to the murder board. Meredith is also eyeing the board. Beckett bristles, as she notices that she's – of course – eyeing up the designer purse. Well, Beckett'll just shut that down.

"This purse belonged to one of our victims." So stop drooling over it. It's disrespectful to the victim. Annoyingly, bimbette isn't really bothered, though she pretends to be for the sake of appearances.

"That is so tragic. More tragic, of course, if it had been the real thing, but still..." Beckett wishes she would just lose the saccharine, dammit. She doesn't care. It's so annoying, and so insincere – wait. What did she just say?

"You sayin' this was fake?" Esposito gets it out his mouth first. Bimbette hasn't even realised what she's said, and is babbling on about total irrelevancies when they've caught a break and need to get on to it, right away.

It's not how she expected to catch a break. If it solves her case, though, she doesn't care if the break comes from cop work or luck or Castle or his bimbette ex-wife. She'll take it any way it comes. But she still wishes that Meredith would go. Her complete incomprehension about the work they do is tedious in the extreme and now that they've got the break they need it would be a really good idea if she left and let them get on with it. Her voice is shredding Beckett's ears and temper at equal speed.

"Look at the leather and the stitching. It's totally knock-off. I mean, it's good enough to fool the untrained shopper, but I have a retail eye." She might be implying that Beckett doesn't. Beckett really couldn't care. It's a lead. That's all that matters. And it starts to coalesce into usefulness.

"Canal Street."

With only a very small amount of encouragement – well, her threat to shoot him if he doesn't get his ex and his daughter (whose presence Beckett wouldn't mind at all, because she would at least stay quiet and out the way, unlike _both_ her parents) out the precinct – Castle and accoutrements leave and Beckett and the boys get on with some serious cop work, to be ready in the morning for Canal Street. No point going now, it's getting late and the shops and stalls will be shut up before they get there.

Castle is not at all impressed by the day. Meredith had been a mistake in the first place, and had not improved with the passage of time. He's not impressed by being hit on (if there's any of that to be done, it will be by him. To Beckett.); he's furious that Meredith took Alexis out of school for any reason at all, and then it is insupportable to embarrass her further by bringing her to the precinct; and her attitude to his friends – yes, _friends_ – in the precinct was simply rude. Not to mention the inevitable tension between her and Beckett. There's just no comparison, though. Beckett is so immeasurably different: both beautiful, but in very different ways; but Beckett has intelligence and fire and verve – and is perfectly content to make it very clear she doesn't need him in any way at all. Like now. He should be in the precinct with the team, but instead Beckett's made it clear that he should leave. Which is _also_ Meredith's fault. Some decisive action is clearly required, much as when he killed off Storm. Castle is simply not having Meredith around, messing up his plans and not-so incidentally stoking Beckett to even higher levels of irritation and anger than she already inflicts upon him. It's difficult enough to make her come to him: further barriers are not required. He makes a couple of calls: to his investment advisor and a friend in the right business, back on the West Coast. That should do it: she'll be out of New York by the end of the weekend and she'll think it's all her own talent that's done it. He'll have his life arranged just the way he wants it.

* * *

Next day they're at Canal Street to meet Esposito and Ryan and start chasing down the evidence. Castle's still rather quiet - embarrassed, Beckett thinks happily, which has certainly reduced the chatter quotient - but it doesn't stop him standing and looming slightly closer than is appropriate any time he thinks he can get away with it, reminding her just how dangerously large he is. In fact, he's emitting rather more edge than he has done for a couple of weeks. If he doesn't quit the closeness before the boys notice, though, he'll have an elbow in his gut, though she may just do that whether they notice anything or not. This is not that sort of ... interaction. That's the word. Interaction. Because it is absolutely definitely not anything more. Though he's been getting fractionally more likeable, as he's got more useful. Fractionally.

The lock-up has been trashed. At least, that's what it looks like. Every bag is shredded, and there's another voodoo symbol on the floor. Apparently it symbolises death. How appropriate. Unfortunately, death is not currently the first option on the list of approved arrest techniques (if it were, Castle would be dead already), but a last resort. Thinking of which, where has Castle got to this time?

Castle turns out to be admiring himself on TV – arrogant jerk. "I really am ruggedly handsome, aren't I?" That's not going to help solve the case. (but he is, and she hates that she knows it, and that she knows just how good he looks under the clothes, too.) She shakes her mind clear. There must be a point to this. Even Castle can't be quite that vain. Surely. So why's he looking at the screen – and what else has this camera been recording? They go in to find out, and for a wonder the proprietor is actually happy to co-operate. Eventually. After Beckett's been just a little snappish. Of course Castle's trying to improve her mood. Not.

"Her blood sugar's low. She gets a little cranky." Some people are too busy to stop for a three-course lunch, Castle. The dead won't wait. Food will still be available later. This is, after all, New York, where the takeout joints never sleep. If he's going to jab at her, though…

"Zip it, kitten." It's more irritable than she might have expected to be. Maybe lunch would be a good idea, but she really does not have time. There's a lot to do. Anyway, it's had the desired effect. Castle winces and shuts up.

A considerable amount of the day later, including a wholly botched raid on a warehouse which has resulted mainly in the suspect getting away, Beckett is fully focused on the case to avoid losing her temper. Fortunately, Castle is also in a less-than-sunny mood, and is keeping very quiet. So he should, because he'd deliberately ignored her order to stay clear of the situation and then his phone had rung and blown the whole raid to hell. She could hardly be angrier about that. She'd thought that he'd stopped messing up. Clearly not. She gives him the cold shoulder while the boys go through the camera evidence.

Castle is feeling miserably humiliated, which is a feeling he not only hates but thought he had got past in the Beckett context after he'd messed up with the nanny. Even the boys are annoyed with him, and then when he couldn't even identify the vehicle they've clearly decided that he's a lot less use than he has been. He doesn't like the feeling of having screwed up, of failing, at all. But there's nothing he can do to sort it out right now. At least he's sorted out Meredith. How she could ever have thought that he'd spot her more than a million dollars to stay here completely escapes him.

But then there's a chance for at least some redemption. The real cops have identified the likely next victim, but it's Castle who's in possession of the latest technology that enables them to find her. It soothes his humiliated soul. He's still useful, still has a role. But Beckett's tense and hurried all the way to the woman's door, and when he tries to suggest that he could break the door down she not only looks at him with no humour at all, but reduces him to a small pile of unnecessary waste by referring to him, yet again, as _kitten_. That is starting to annoy him. Beckett's deliberately making him feel small, and useless, when he's neither.

And then it all goes to hot lead and hell. The woman – what an idiot – left her front door wide open for their perpetrator to walk in, gun up and trigger ready. Castle just caught it in time to tackle Beckett to the floor, otherwise he guesses she'd be bleeding or dead right now. All his sparring and gym work paid off: and he's saved her life. He had never expected to be able to.

Gun battles, though, are not nearly as entertaining in reality as in the movies. He's no coward, but he is utterly astonished at the depth of courage it must take the cops to do their job, risking this and their lives every day. He hadn't appreciated it, till now. The thought that his three cops could be killed is not pleasant. And she just keeps trying to get a shot off, risking her life every time. He can't even assist: he doesn't carry and short of making himself a target and being shot dead; which is really a step too far, though he's sure that Beckett would still accept it if he offered; he is no help at all. Beckett's down to two rounds, and their position is not getting better.

"I need a clean shot," Beckett complains. _Complains_, like being fired on is no more of an issue than a dripping faucet. "I gotta get eyes on him." Finally, a way he can help. He sticks his phone above the counter and snaps a photo. Even that isn't good enough. She still can't take the man down. But then he has a brilliant idea. It's staring him in the face. Bottles of champagne. He knows exactly how to make this work: all those playboy years and parties. Champagne can be made to open with a gunshot report, if you know how – and he does. Oh yes, he does. He can make as many fake shots as Beckett needs, and the perp will shoot every time he thinks she does. They can draw him out of his hiding place, and Beckett will get the chance to take her clean shot.

It works. One cork, one return fire – and two full in the chest to put the bad guy down. That's interesting, now it's over. The three adrenaline responses aren't just a myth. He's been up for the fight, flight wasn't an option, and the third is suddenly very strongly on his mind.

Beckett looks around the shot-up apartment and down at the immobilised bad guy. Here they are now, a shot and badly injured perpetrator on the floor in front of them, and Castle's done something undeniably useful that she couldn't have done by herself: saved her life. Then he gave her a chance to get the shot off cleanly and take down the crazed trafficker. Interestingly, when it got to live action and hot lead; when push came to shove (she thinks about _shove_) he didn't hesitate. Not what she had expected from a writer, a celebrity. There's clearly a decent amount of guts in there to go along with his desire for glory. Though he shouldn't be stealing and drinking the champagne. Not at all how the NYPD behaves. Far too flamboyant (and far too sexy) for murder. But that aside, he's saved her life. He had her back, just like Espo or Ryan would have, and he had it without even having a weapon, which certainly takes courage. The unusual idea that she might trust someone settles into the very back of her mind, where she doesn't notice it, as a team arrives to take the perp away. She looks at Castle. He looks half-terrified still, half-pumped.

"You okay, Castle?" He's found a glass, and is bringing down his tension level with the assistance of some good champagne, seeing as the bottle was already open.

"My first gun battle."

"Your last gun battle." Beckett sounds as if she thinks it's never going to happen again. Castle isn't nearly as sure about that. There's a lot of shadowing Beckett in his future. There are bound to be more live-fire incidents.

"Don't be so pessimistic. I think I handled myself pretty well."

"Yup. Probably saved my life."

"Probably? I definitelysaved your life. And you know what that means, don't you?" Oh yes, she should do. "It means you owe me." That'll make her rise.

"_Owe you? What?"_ She looks absolutely horrified at the idea.

"Whatever I want."

He wants a number of things. Right now, he wants her up against the wall. But there's much more. He wants her to tell him all of her story, to fill in the gaps in the file he'd read. He wants her to stop pretending that he's not important. He wants her to stop keeping him at a distance, stop hiding behind a barrier, stop pretending she dislikes him outside bed. He's not going to let her keep doing any of that: he'll break her shell and find the real Beckett underneath; make that Beckett his, too. He needs to know more, take more, possess her body and her mind and _see_ all of her; own her and her story.

"And you know exactly what I want, don't you?"

He's moving in on her, and the tone belongs in a bedroom, not outside a shot-up apartment with blood on the floor and the paramedics just on their way out. She looks up, clearly expecting him to say something entirely inappropriate and suggestive. From the way she's regarding him, in fact, she's expecting him to _do_ something entirely inappropriate. And he really, really wants to. He wants to pull her in and plunder her mouth and then take her home and show her how life-threatening situations and that much adrenaline affect him. He's pretty certain, from the shade of her eyes and her parted lips, that she feels the same. But he hasn't forgotten how much grief she's already given him courtesy of Meredith's indiscretions, and maybe this is his best chance to squash that. It's old already. He leans right in.

"You know what I really, really want you to do?" And he's close enough to kiss her and oh, kisses are what she's expecting so he whispers in her ear, "Never, ever, call me kitten."

And he struts off, smirking, leaving Beckett leaning on the wall and just for once wholly discombobulated.

When Beckett recovers herself and leaves the building, she finds Castle leaning on the cruiser, still smirking. They get settled and she pulls out into the traffic. Before Castle has a chance to start on any of the thoroughly inappropriate suggestions she is relatively sure are on his mind – she hasn't missed his physical state, even if he didn't kiss her – she'll deal with him first.

"What's wrong with calling you 'kitten'? It's cute." Castle can hear the snigger behind the words. "Very fitting – you know, all soft and fluffy." She smirks evilly. "And small." He growls, not amused at all.

"I don't like it." Beckett draws in a breath for another jab. That's not a good reason to stop ragging.

"I don't need to be reminded of that relationship, okay?" There's just enough force – and pain – behind the words for her to stop, step away. She doesn't want deliberately to hurt anyone, even Castle, whose capacity to annoy her remains unequalled. She subsides. Castle, on the other hand, carries on, a certain edge in his tone. "And I'm not fluffy, soft, or small, Detective. Of which I think _you_ need reminded." He drops his voice half an octave, letting sex and seduction slither through the car. "Shall I show you, later? Maybe when you've finished at the precinct you could come by, or I will, and we can discuss the finer points of description. Accurate description is very important, you know. I've always found that the best way to describe things accurately is to experience them." He smiles lazily. "Size, shape, texture, hardness or softness, range of movement" – Beckett squirms in her seat – "sound… You get the picture." Oh, she does. She surely does.

"For example," he murmurs. Beckett suddenly realises what he's about to do, and wishes fervently that she'd never told him that the cruiser doesn't record sound. "I could describe you, after our first date: pushed up against your own door, your lips dark red and swollen and parted, waiting for me; your eyes half-closed and dark, dazed with your own desire" – her breathing is quickening – "black smooth silk barely covering your breasts, the black silk triangle between your legs; black lace hold-ups on soft ivory skin, all just waiting to be tasted." She makes a very soft noise. Castle's lazy grin doesn't falter. "And when I stroked my fingers over your legs, all the way up those long, long legs, and you opened for me and pushed against me and you moaned for more" – another noise, and still the grin doesn't change – "and when I touched you, you were wet and ready for me, and when I was inside you, you were tight and hot and fitting perfectly around me, and when you came you screamed for me." He's brought her right to the edge, and he hasn't laid a finger on her. She can feel dampness at her centre, the hard clench of pelvic muscles. She concentrates very hard on the street in front of her.

"You see what description can do, Beckett? It can take you right into the story, make you feel everything as if it were real. Shall we discuss descriptions further, later on?" Or preferably in the next half hour, Beckett thinks, in a soundproof, windowless room somewhere they wouldn't be disturbed. But he hasn't finished.

"I've brought you right into the story, haven't I? I think you're right back there, pinned between the door and my body, writhing against me. I think that if I reached over now and undid your so very formal dress pants and slipped my hand inside them I'd find you wearing more of that sinful silky lingerie. I think if I slid my fingers down I'd find you soaking wet, wouldn't I? You're all wet, right here and now, just for me, and if it weren't for the cameras I'd give you what you want." He's not smiling now. The one quick flicked glance that's all Beckett can spare from her frantic concentration on the traffic shows her the hungry, predatory look that only winds her tighter. He's just as hot for it as she is. "But I can't. You'll have to wait until later." There's a short silence.

"Do you want to come over, later? Everybody's out. Meredith's going back to LA."

"Yes," she breathes out. They're pulling into the precinct garage. As she switches the engine off, Castle speaks again, an undertone of instruction edging the velvet voice.

"Beckett, it'll be more satisfying if you wait." Ohhh. _This_ game. She thinks she might like this game. Deferred gratification can have some very… pleasurable… results.

"And if I don't?" The lazy, _I'm-in-charge_ grin is back.

"Consequences."

She doesn't answer that. If she does, they won't make it out the garage. Which has security cameras. Heat builds as she considers letting him control the timing of her reactions. Another step into those very inviting waters. The midnight tide is tugging at her again, inviting her to let herself drown. She smiles, very slowly. She'll give in on this, give him the control she wants him to have, but by the time she's got to Castle's she'll be ready to even the score. She'll test his control of himself, too.

But first, the paperwork, the perp to process, tidy away the loose ends of the case. Finish it off, properly: that's the priority. As ever, it takes a while. It's past dark when she leaves, later than she expected. She goes home, planning on the journey, showers quickly, resisting the temptation that clutches at her as she does, puts on the outfit she'd decided on the way home would be most suitable.

* * *

_thank you to all reviewers, guest, logged in, old and new. I appreciate all of you._


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: We can't stop, and we won't stop**

When there's finally a rap on his door, Castle is wound rather tighter than he'd like. He might have thought that talking dirty in the car would be a good game, but not if it leaves him in this state. He'd expected Beckett some time ago, as well, and although he's sure that she's been at work he doesn't like being reminded that he's not sufficiently important to her that she'd make any effort to hurry: doesn't like the sharp jab of memory and _I don't want a relationship_. He'll show her why she should.

When she comes in she's not dressed as he had expected, either. Based on previous experience of her tactics, he'd expected something that would make it absolutely clear she was out to drive him insane. He'd looked forward to it, and been prepared for it. Instead, she's wearing black jeans, flat shoes and a plain white scoop-necked T-shirt under a soft leather jacket, as casual as he's ever seen her. He's wrong-footed by it, immediately. And she spots it, immediately.

"I'm off-duty, Castle." She grins, wholly sure of herself, hands him her jacket to be hung up. "I even left my gun at home." He's momentarily distracted.

"What happens if you get a call?" Beckett acquires a very slight air of irritation.

"Depending on where it is, I go home and pick it up or I get my spare from the precinct on the way. I shouldn't get a call, though. I'm off-duty." Castle thinks that that has nothing to do with whether she responds to a call or not. He hasn't noticed that she's ever really off-duty. Still, it's very encouraging.

"Wine? Coffee? Something else?" He puts a hand over her back to steer her to the couch. At that point he discovers his first misapprehension. The deceptively simple white T-shirt is soft, heavy silk, and infinitely tactile. He'll stroke it, he decides, just as soon as he's been a polite host. And then it occurs to him to wonder about the rest of her clothes. Specifically, what's _under_ the casual look. Look. Not necessarily reality. She's playing him, again. He runs a firm hand over the silk, up and down again, and smiles darkly as she curves very slightly into his touch. Two can play at this game. It's only fun with two. He strokes again, slightly harder, turning her into him.

"I thought you were offering me a drink?"

He tugs her against him, holds her there; not that she's pulling away. "You haven't told me what you want." She's fairly certain he doesn't just mean the choice of drink. He's still running his hand over her back, down to just shy of the curve of her ass. It's almost hypnotic. She's not sure who's more likely to be mesmerised by it. She makes the mistake of looking up to answer. Heat and hunger are flaring in his eyes and she feels response tightening her nipples and swirling through her blood. And then his mouth is on her and she opens to receive him and all the repressed desire that he'd built up in her in the cruiser and she'd kept rammed down as she finished the case paperwork explodes.

It's just as well, Castle thinks with the very small portion of his mind that can still function, that he's a big man and that he works out. Aggressive Beckett is a force to be reckoned with. She's fought her way into dominating his mouth and she's pulled his head down and he is certain that seconds ago his shirt was buttoned. It's not buttoned now. No. This is not the way he intends this to go. He catches Beckett's delicate, destructive hands before she can get any further, holds them in one of his behind her back, slowing her down; runs his other hand into the nape of her neck and the short hair there, angles her head to his satisfaction and proceeds to keep her in place while he explores her mouth, reversing her domination and proving beyond all doubt that he's able to give her what she wants as she stops fighting him and arches in. Finally he lifts his head.

"What do you want, Beckett? You seem a little hot and bothered."

"Shut up and kiss me, Castle." Well. That's not very subtle. Nor is the way she's moving against him. He smiles slowly and darkly at her.

"Uh-uh. It's nice to know that you waited, like I asked." He feels the shudder as that registers, followed by an irritable growl _– Don't like being read, do you, Beckett?_ – as she tries to tug her hands free. "Uh-uh," he says again. "You don't get to do that." She growls again. This time it's not quite as irritable. More sexy. "We were going to discuss description, weren't we?"

He walks them over to the couch and lets go of Beckett's hands to sit, grasps her waist to pull her down on to his lap, where he can keep her tight against him with one arm round her, stroking her shirt sensually.

"What should I describe?" he murmurs. "Maybe the texture of your shirt?" He slides his free hand over it slowly, across her shoulder, down the centre of her cleavage, carefully missing her breasts, over her taut abs. "The way it slithers under my fingertips, almost as if it's wet? The way it moves across you, delineating all your curves" – there's a featherlight touch against the undercurve of her breast, pointing his moral – "the way it invites further touches, strokes? Or should I describe the way it invites me to find out if the skin beneath it is as soft and silky as the fabric covering it?" He untucks the shirt from the waistband of her jeans, and slips his hand underneath to lie on her stomach, circling gently. In return, Beckett draws cool fingers over his revealed skin from clavicle to navel, and listens to the harsher breathing with satisfaction. But Castle keeps talking, and it's settling over her, seeping slowly into her skin and nerves, replacing the blood in her veins with heat. One finger from his large hand skates over the black denim.

"I could describe the contrast between the roughness of the denim and the smoothness beneath it, under my fingers." Said finger slips down beneath her waistband, spanning from the edge of her ribs almost to the rim of her panties. Beckett squirms in anticipation, and feels Castle's own hard arousal pressing against her; the reflexive tightening of his arm to bring her closer in. She scrapes over his chest again, adding a very slight edge of nail; hearing the indrawn breath as she runs further down than previously, undoes the belt, approaches the button of his pants when Castle stops her.

"You don't get that…yet." He dips and kisses her, replacing his hand where he'd left off, takes her mouth deeply and feels her hands come up to bite into the hard muscle of his shoulders, undoes her jeans in one swift decisive movement. "Patience, Beckett. All in good time. I know what you want." Wicked fingers slip over the fabric he's revealed. "Another contrast. Lace, under denim. Sensual, under casual." He flicks fingertips back upwards, pauses, glides his palm over her bra. "And more lace. A little …roughness, under the smooth surface. Is that what you want?" He kisses her again, much harder: sure, searching, dominating; and suddenly she gives in and opens fully to him and that's interesting, the small analytical portion of his mind notes: she likes a little forcefulness. A little more to explore, to check. A subject for discussion, and agreement. And then he stops thinking and analysing because there is only her mouth and her body and her reactions fuelling his actions and the most primitive contrasts of all. He pulls her T-shirt off and she drags him down to her so he can nip and soothe, suck and bite gently and slide her off his lap as he takes her jeans down with his movement and _what the fuck_ she's put on stockings and he rips her panties down and _oh she's so wet_ and he slides two hard fingers into her and plunders her mouth again and she's under him on his couch and moaning and as he circles his thumb across her she's screaming _faster harder please Castle_ and he – stops.

"Not yet, Beckett," he rasps. "Not here." And he simply picks her up and carries her to the bedroom, all house rules long since forgotten, ever since the conversation in the cruiser; drops her on the bed and removes first the tangle of shoes, jeans and panties, leaving her spread across his coverlet in lace bra and _fuck-me_ stockings, and then his own clothes; dragging his hot gaze over her till she's even more restless and breathing harder. She's an open, wanton invitation to the forbidden. When she speaks it's the ripple of tearing silk.

"Like what you see?" There's an underlay of sharp, denied need, remnants of how he's edged her, now and earlier. She moves enticingly.

"Oh, yes. I like it. I like you like this." He leans over her and nudges her legs apart. "How much of a bad girl are you, Beckett? Because I think you're very bad indeed. Nice girls don't wear these." He flirts his tongue over the tops of the stockings, draws it slowly upward and pauses. "What shall I do now, Beckett?" He flicks over her before she can answer, and she moves against him. "I could keep you on the edge for a while longer." He looks up, drops to a predatory growl. "Or a lot longer." He licks again. "Is that a game you like, Beckett?" And again he doesn't give her the chance to answer, plays with lips and teeth and tongue until she's right on the edge again and alternately begging him to let her come and threatening him if he doesn't.

When he stops again, her profane, prolific threats notwithstanding, and slides up next to her, she'd be ready to kill him except that no-one's made her feel this good, ever. She can't catch her breath to speak beyond disconnected words, chiefly _more_ and _please_, and he's still playing gently with her to keep her writhing against his fingers and whimpering whenever she can't prevent her mouth making the noise. It's clear he's got more in mind than the hard rough fabulously frantic sex that's previously been the case. She sinks into the ability to give in, give up, give over the lead completely and submit to her own need and someone else's control, in the way she's not dared to in years. Ten years. Ten years since she trusted anyone this far. (but it's not a relationship. Absolutely not. It's only in bed.) He's using that deep bedroom voice on her again, velvet suggestions to invoke all the dark delights she might want, let her know that he's prepared to take her anywhere, everywhere, she's happy to go. She should be horrified at how well he's read her, how quickly he's seen her secrets, but she really does not care while he's touching her like this and flicking all her switches.

"So, Beckett, let's sum up how you like it. Add up all the clues, and solve this mystery." He dances his fingers over and into her.

"Don't think you know me," she chokes out, gasping.

"I'd never say that," he grins, strokes over a spot that leaves her wordless. "But I think I know what you like. You can tell me if I'm wrong." He pauses, smiles diabolically down at her. "If you can talk, that is." He glides in and out some more, hitting the perfect spot each time, till she calls him some names he wouldn't expect to hear coming out her mouth and pleads for more. He's perfectly happy to wait for his own pleasure. They'll have all night, and by the end of it she'll unquestionably be addicted to him.

"You like being held down, and in place. You like restraints. You like it rough, some force. You like someone else in charge, you like someone edging you. In fact, my dear Detective, you like being on the bottom. In bed. It's the only place you don't always need to be in control." He observes her carefully. "But you're not too deeply into that scene. Just enough to escape from your demons. Just enough to let go." He stops teasing her for long enough to let her catch her breath.

"What's your safe word, Beckett?"

"Cinnamon." And with that she drops the last pretence that he hasn't called her right and hands over control of the whole game to Castle. He takes immediate advantage, pinning her wrists above her head and kissing and stroking her till she writhes and whimpers _please Castle_, _more please_ and he intended to make her wait but it's been more and more difficult for him to stop and bring her back so this time he doesn't and can't help but make her shatter under his hands and lips.

When she opens her eyes again she's cuddled in close. She thinks, with the miniature part of her brain which is not completely fried by earth-shatteringly good orgasm, that it might be … interesting… to play with Castle for a while. She's given him control, but that doesn't mean passivity. That wouldn't be any fun at all. Either he'll let her, or he'll stop her. Either works for her. She starts with the conveniently located nipple in front of her, nibbles gently as an opening gambit. When his arms tighten in reflex, she nips harder, and takes the slight gasp as only her due. She scrapes nail tips down across the hard muscles of his chest, and notes with some interest that Castle clearly likes that. He might like being on top, (she likes him being on top) but he isn't fanatical about it. She trails her fingers lower until she can take him firmly in hand, as it were, and see how close to the edge she can bring him before he snaps. One way or the other. Turnabout is, after all, fair play and she has several hours to make up for.

It takes less time than she'd expected to break him. He survives her questing fingers with barely a twitch of his infuriating smirk, but once she puts her mouth on him, takes him in and uses tongue and then teeth to lend an edge of danger, he's groaning in almost no time and _how did she do that _she's fracturing his control already and _I'm supposed to be in charge here she yielded to me _he may not survive this and _no! don't stop_ she's stopped. He doesn't want her to stop. And she's smirking at him from lower down the bed and _okay that is enough_. Time to change the game back.

Beckett finds herself flat on her back in a pile of pillows with Castle firmly on top of her and pressing her down. She doesn't know quite how that happened.

"I see," Castle says teasingly. "You like someone else in charge, but you only give in to them when you're made to?" He slides against her. She squirms under him in response, and he kisses her hungrily. "You want to fight it, don't you? Right up till you can't fight any more." Her eyes are dark, dilated; her lips are reddened well beyond the effects of lip gloss. "You don't concede until someone's conquered you." He'd written his private Detective better than he'd guessed. He slides again, teasing through the slick flesh beneath him, places her hands by her head and takes the majority of his own weight on his elbows. "And I have. Haven't I, Beckett?" She shakes her head, and he can see argument rising in her throat. He kisses her deeply again before she can start to argue, eliciting a very different response. When he lifts from her lips he smiles down slowly and lazily, wholly sure of his ground.

"Let's play, Beckett." He shifts his weight to one side, tucking one of Beckett's arms under him and catching her other hand with the arm that he's insinuated around her neck, leaving her open to his other searching hand, slides it over her collarbone and very slowly further down to the edge of her bra. She pulls against his grip, not succeeding in loosening it, essays a movement to bring his hand where she wants it, fails again.

"Touch me, Castle." He runs a finger lightly between her breasts. "Properly."

"That's not up to you, Beckett. It's up to me. You're mine now." Possession drips from each syllable, and his hand slips firmly across to palm her breast harder, a little roughly, a little reminder that she's held in by his strength and size, a little reminder that he's in control. She's breathing harder, choppily, as he runs his free hand down over her hip, her fine cut quadriceps, over the lace top of the stockings she's still wearing, comes back up to reach under her and unclip her bra. He removes it gently, never letting her go long enough for her to try to fight back, and then takes her nipple in his mouth and sucks till she begins to moan again. He trails fingers down and into the wet heat, plays with her until she's pushing against his hand, trails his fingers back up her body and slips them into her mouth for her to suck on. When he takes them away she whimpers and tries to bring one long leg up around him so that she can slide over the breadth of his thigh and rub against his hard weight.

"Not yet. I'll give you what you need." He pushes her down again and rises over her to position himself. She writhes against him.

"Now, Castle." She wants him inside her so badly.

"Do you want me?" She's so close, and he's teasing, and it's so close to her edgy dreams and fantasies: a big man taking her higher at his pace, not hers, keeping her waiting, holding her down. She lets the dark water close over her head.

"Yes. Now, Castle. Please."

"Are you mine? Say it." This time she is going to admit it in terms. He's not a sex toy, there because she wants release (he doesn't think about his own past attitudes) and he's convenient. She's his, and there is more to this than a quick fuck or a slow one. He pushes a little way into her, and she jerks up into him, her body tight and hot under him and around him and the slight scrape of the lace at her thigh rubbing against him and he's beginning to lose it because making her wait means making him wait and _dammit_ he's been waiting all day too and she's come once and he has – not. He pushes all the way in, hard, fast, and she mewls and squirms and can't move more than he allows.

"You're mine. Say it, Beckett." She mewls again, not even capable of a moan, desperate for him to move, but he's filling her: thick and hard and long and _please Castle, please_ and "Not until you admit it" and _fuck_ she wants this – she wants _him_ – but she's never given anybody that concession ever in the ten years of her adult life no matter how deep she'd paddled in the pool. Not Sorenson, who at one time she'd almost thought she might marry, till that fell apart for so many reasons, not anyone else. He moves a tiny amount, enough to please himself but not satisfy her, and again, and again, and _fuck_ he really means to leave her here on the edge and come himself and she could stop this with her safe word if she wanted but she doesn't want that either and she needs _him_ and right now she'll say almost anything if he'll just stop teasing her and do this properly and _oh please, please_ and it's just another part of the game and doesn't mean anything and –

"Yours," falls out of her mouth. And then he moves _properly_ and thrusts in and withdraws and in again and after that the world dissolves white around her.

* * *

_thank you to all reviewers. It's really nice to know what people think, so please tell me. _


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: What you doin' in your bed?**

Castle's holding her close again, turned over so that she's on top. She's tired, now playtime's over. Time to go home. She tries to roll off him, but he's not letting go.

"Lemme go," she yawns. "I need to go home. 'M tired." She makes another attempt to move away.

"Why'd you need to go home? Stay here. Much better."

Castle is not at all impressed by her idea. He's finally got the next stage of what he wanted, and it's all going to be spoilt because she won't stay with him. She's admitted she's his; she's given in to him, let him take her deeper into the water; and she won't stay? No. Time for some enjoyable, delicate persuasion, he thinks. He runs a warm hand over her back and down, slides her leg up around his waist, strokes wickedly along her inner thigh.

"You sure you wanna go home? I think you should stay here, let me keep you warm." He turns her fully into his chest, and pulls a cover over them both. "See? Just what you want." He slides hard fingertips a little further, tantalisingly. "I want you to stay. I'll show you why you should." Dark suggestion slithers under his tone to slink over her skin, settle into her synapses. Seduction lounges languorously about her, and temptation whispers in her ear. Just a little while longer, it murmurs, just a little longer under his possessive, wicked hands would be so good.

"Show me," she purrs, and nips gently at him where her mouth lies against his clavicle. "Show me then, Castle."

And he does, all over again, until she bites nails into his back and claws him closer, deeper; screams out his name and lets him own her; and despite all of her intentions falls asleep in the nest of his arms, just where, and how, she should be.

When she wakes, some time past midnight, it's because she's cold. Castle's stolen the whole of the comforter, most of the pillows and all but six inches of the enormous bed; and he's not wrapped round her to keep her warm any more. It seems like a good time to take her leave. She quietly dresses partway with such clothes as made it into the bedroom, wincing slightly and contemplating a hot soak with plenty of bath salts; leaves a hastily scrawled note on the nightstand next to him, picks up her shoes and slips out of the room; snags her T-shirt, jacket and purse in the main room; finishes dressing and sneaks silently out of the door. She'll definitely need a long, hot bath before she starts her day tomorrow, but the remaining slight ache along her thighs and deep into her core is a pleasurable reminder of the hot night just finished. She's home and in her own bed less than half an hour later, sound asleep. Her dreams scorch through her slumber, every detail amplified and repeated; outlining games they haven't played yet. But in her fantasies, they do, and she blazes, twisting and moaning in her sleep.

It never occurs to her that Castle expected her to stay the whole night. Even if it had, she wouldn't have stayed. That's far too close to getting involved in a relationship, and neither of them want that. They'd each said so. She hasn't noticed that that isn't what Castle said. She hasn't noticed that he carefully omitted that part.

Castle wakes at false dawn, dim light trickling into his bedroom where the curtains are still wide open, searching around him for Beckett. He sits up, looks around, listens. She's not there, not in the bathroom; when he stumbles out of bed she's not sleeping on his couch, as she had on hers. Her clothes are gone, he perceives. _She's_ gone. He goes back to his room, and notices the paper on his nightstand.

_Castle. Gone home. See you. Beckett._

What the _hell_? No. No fucking way. She is not doing this again. She did this at hers, but at least then she hadn't left the building and he could take her back. This time he's more than a little mad. He's absolutely furious. What is her problem with just staying with him? It's not as if she isn't enjoying it: he's sure of that. She's given in to him, admitted she's his. So she should _stay put_. Stay put and let him make her feel so good in all the ways he knows she'll like. _Next time_, whispers a dark little voice from a primitive corner of his mind,_ next time use her own handcuffs on her._ The thought is so very, very appealing, in so very, very many ways. It's certainly worth considering. Mutually.

It never occurs to Castle that Beckett might have regarded admitting she's his as merely part of the game, only applicable to this time and this place. He's so blinded by his still obsessive need to have her with him that any assumption other than that she's getting fully involved simply doesn't hit his brain. And why should it? He's never failed to get everything he wanted, all his dreams have always come true. Just like this one's coming true.

He returns to his bed, breathing in the scent of sex and Beckett, falls back asleep to hot hard dreams of everything that they might do together; gentler reveries of her cuddled up close, soft and warm and always, always where she ought to be: right next to him.

* * *

Castle means to find Beckett the next day and _discuss_ (so to speak) the finer points of bedroom etiquette: in particular his strong preference that she stay around afterwards; but somewhere in between the need to be in when Alexis returns from her sleepover, the chaos attendant on his mother's walk of shame and, worse, her apparent need to tell him slightly more than he has any desire to know, and a sudden inspiration that sends him full tilt towards his keyboard and doesn't wear off until several hours later, he finds that it's nearly evening. He also finds that he's still not pleased with the outcome of the previous night, when he reads back what he's written. Nikki and Rook are not getting along well, in this section. They're fighting over trivial things, staying apart when they should be together (nothing Freudian about that slip) and generally butting heads at every opportunity. It's good writing (he is always honest with himself about the standard of his writing) but he's dancing on the tightrope of including emotions that have nothing to do with Nikki and Rook and everything to do with Castle and Beckett with every further chapter that he writes. How to show her that she should want more than a succession of one night stands, more than a short affair?

Oh.

What happened there? Four days ago he hadn't worried about that: hadn't even been sure that he wanted any sort of an affair, let alone a long term affair. But that had been before he'd seen her put her life on the line, before he'd dived to save her, before they'd – together, one team, _partners_ – taken down the bad guy with the bullets flying and a very uncomfortably real risk that either or both of them would end up injured or dead. Only yesterday, he could have lost Beckett, before he'd really found her. And that event, that thought, that possible outcome, has kicked his thinking into overdrive. He does want something that lasts longer. He'll decide how long it lasts, not some crazed criminal with a gun. He's saved her life, put his brains and his muscle and reactions to good use: achieved something that _matters_, outside the celebrity bubble. He's almost surprised by how quietly secure that makes him feel. It's all very well being pack alpha over the jackals and vultures that attend celebrity, wealth and fame. It's quite different when you prove it by protecting the alpha lioness, because she actually needs help, not because you think she should want you to take care of her, not because it makes you feel good to look as if you're shielding a beautiful woman from trouble, not because you assume she needs protection. Because she's going to risk her own life every time the job demands it, and _dammit_ she will not do it without him there beside her.

She will _not_.

Quietly, unobtrusively winding into the back of his mind where he doesn't notice its insinuations, is a considerable change in tone. Six weeks being constantly around the Twelfth has altered him, already. Being around cops, who don't care about money or status, but who care very deeply about taking down the _right_ bad guy, (it would have been so easy for Beckett to stick with the crazed fan, ignore Alison Tisdale's brother, but she wanted the _right_ answer, not the easy one) who banter and josh and use some very politically incorrect terms indeed – but who put their lives on the line for unappreciative strangers, and have each other's backs, every day; without complaint and indeed with enthusiasm – Esposito taking down a bad guy is definitely enthusiastic. They are, in short, sincere. True good guys. And it's rubbed off on him in a way he hasn't noticed and would never, if asked, have expected. Though he doesn't consciously know it, he's begun, and in fact is some considerable way past _begun_, to lose the shallow, _anything I want as soon as I want it and drop it when I'm bored_ attitude that has defined the last twenty years of his life, outside his own front door. He's becoming a different man.

He's still annoyed with Beckett, though. She shouldn't have sneaked out, gone home. She should have stayed. She's his. She said she was. So she should have stayed. Next time, he'll make sure she stays. This time, he wants an explanation. The idea that Beckett might not feel that she owes him an explanation doesn't reach his cortex. He taps out a carefully composed text. _Missed you this morning. You should've stuck around._ He'll see what that brings. But tomorrow, he'll have an explanation. No-one's ever gone home on him. Oh. That's because no-one's ever been here before, that he wasn't actually married to. No-one, ever. Another rule that Beckett's shattered, and he hadn't even noticed. He'd only worried about no-one being home so that they had privacy, not to protect Alexis.

Ah. That's another thing. Beckett hasn't really noticed Alexis, any time. Others have tried to make nice about her, and even with her, tried to get to him through his daughter. He's stopped that short. Beckett, though, isn't trying to make any sort of impression on Alexis. Ordinary civility, appropriate to a polite teen, yes. But, as ever, Beckett was simply focused on the case, and Alexis was irrelevant to that. He doesn't know if he's hurt that she isn't striving to get to know his family or relieved that she isn't. It's not relevant, anyway. It's not as if they're going to come into close contact.

Beckett reads Castle's text with a hint of irritation. She doesn't appreciate him trying to suggest she should have stayed. They both know this isn't a snuggly, cuddly, fluffy relationship. She's not up for publicity, anyway, or walks of shame past his family. She'd rather go home, be home, alone, in her own space, where explanations of any sort will not be required. She doesn't answer to anyone about, or indeed reveal, her personal life, and she's not going to get into a position where that might change. She leaves the text unanswered, and continues with her quiet Sunday evening, planning for the week ahead.

* * *

Plans are, as ever, flexed when a grisly body is found late Monday evening stuffed in a safe, broken and mutilated, missing a finger. A home invasion, carried out with considerable brutality, and some very valuable jewellery drifting in the wind. Beckett, slightly reluctantly, calls Castle. She'd have preferred a couple of days more without him, after the weekend. It all seems to have become more than a little intense, and she'd rather forget – and hope Castle forgets – any admissions she might have made in the heat of the moment about being his. She doesn't want to be anyone's, she doesn't want a relationship, and Castle in possessive mode should be kept strictly confined to the bedroom. There, it's hot. Outside, not so much. Not at all, in fact.

Initial study of the crime scene undertaken, body removed to the morgue with Lanie crooning over it (it's really rather creepy at times, how she talks to the dead), Beckett realises with resignation that she is not going to be able to continue for much longer avoiding Castle's oppressively intent gaze and clear desire to discuss her departure from his loft. He's been trying to corner her for some time, despite the need to get on with the job, and she's tired of the dance. She doesn't see that there's a need to talk about it, or about anything. She briefly considers making the boys take him with them, but that will only work for one trip and she'll spend the next two hours on evasive manoeuvres if she does. She grits her teeth and prepares to shoulder a wagonload of irritation.

She's not wrong. Castle starts as soon as she's pulled out into the cursedly slow-moving traffic.

"You didn't answer my text."

"What text?" That's wholly disingenuous. She knows exactly which text. He's only sent one, since Saturday night. Still, let him think she gets thousands of texts, instead of very few.

"The one I sent yesterday," he points out, as if she should know instantly. Beckett pretends to think.

"Oh," she says with an air of sudden recognition, "that text. It didn't ask any questions so it didn't need an answer."

Castle grinds his teeth audibly. Beckett looks wholly innocent and concentrates on the almost-gridlocked traffic.

"You sneaked off without a word." He only just manages not to say _You were supposed to stay. _Or worse, _I wanted you to stay_. Or still worse _You have to stay with me._ He has to remember that she _says_ she doesn't want taken care of, nor does she want a relationship. He has to remember that he needs to make her think that neither does he.

"You were asleep," she says airily. "It would have been a shame to wake you, so I left a note." She makes it sound so utterly reasonable and normal and not something that should upset anyone in any way at all. "You're really cute when you're asleep. You look so much younger with all your wrinkles smoothed out." Castle squawks, then recovers. She's trying to divert his attention. It's not going to work.

"You didn't have to go. You could have stayed." There's a short silence, during which the tension perceptibly grows. When Beckett answers, her tone has altered: less airy, more direct.

"I wanted to go home. Sleepovers are for kids."

"You didn't say that when I stayed at yours." He's beginning to sound childishly sulky.

"I didn't expect you to stay," she says casually. It's only one semitone away from _I didn't want you to stay_.

"Well, I expected you to stay. I thought we'd sorted that point out at yours."

"What point?" She has no idea what he means.

"That you stay put. Or I make you stay put." As soon as it falls out his unregulated mouth, he expects fireworks. Instead, she laughs.

"Seriously? You meant it?" What? She sounds as if she hadn't even considered that he might have meant it. "That was just for that night." That's not even a hint of a question at all. No, it wasn't _just for that night_. It was a statement of how it was going to be. And he has just enough sense and control not to say that here and now, because being dumped out at the side of the road will do nothing to advance his strategy.

He's floundering, again. He used to be calm, smooth and always, always in control. When he got himself into the Twelfth, he thought that he was in command of the situation. When he pinned Beckett to the mat in sparring, won the bet and took her out to dinner, he thought he was in charge. Even when they exploded into scorching sex, it was all still on track. Except it wasn't, and it isn't. It never has been. Everything he knew, or thought he knew, doesn't apply. She confounds him at every turn, leaves him struggling in her wake, and she doesn't even know that she does it. He needs to regroup right now, because this is about to go horribly, horribly wrong. Trying to be protective doesn't work. Trying to be possessive certainly won't. Being irritating will at least lower the temperature.

"Well, I'd meant it as a continuing invitation, but if you want a fresh invitation each time I'm sure I can arrange it," he oozes, smirking. It works. Beckett rolls her eyes but the danger is temporarily averted. He oozes some more. "Or you could just invite me."

"Manners, Castle," Beckett raps, though it's her normal level of irritation. "Well-brought up people don't demand invitations. They wait till they're asked."

"I don't like waiting. It's boring. I don't do boring. Especially when there are so many interesting ways to spend my time." He wriggles his eyebrows and leers villainously.

"Patience is a virtue, Castle. You might as well cultivate _one_ virtue. Though it's gonna be really lonely, hanging around with all your vices."

Castle growls very softly, which goes straight from Beckett's ears downwards. "Here I thought you liked my vices, Beckett. Especially when they match yours so very neatly." Oh, that's a low blow. Especially in that voice. Certain mutually acceptable vices swim up into her conscious mind. However.

"We have a case, Castle. That's more important than your overactive imagination." She can feel his assessing gaze.

"I don't think it's my imagination that's overactive, right now." He pauses meaningfully. "You're blushing, Beckett. Thinking naughty thoughts, are you?" Smooth molasses slides over her, coating her nerves. "Maybe you'd like to come out to play?" And that is just entirely unfair, because the case comes first and she doesn't want to be induced to think about anything else till it's done. She has to give the case her full attention, deliver justice for the dead.

"I have a case. No time."

It's true. She doesn't shift from the precinct for any length of time. The boys go home, and she stays on, relentlessly hunting for connections until she can't prop her eyes open any longer; starting again too few hours of haunted sleep later. Underneath it all, she's proving to herself that she's still as good, as focused, as determined and diligent as she ever has been; that nothing interferes with her work. She doesn't ask herself why she feels the need to do so, at the expense of all other possibilities, when for much of the time she's spinning her wheels, repeating lines of enquiry she's already exhausted.

Castle comes by the precinct for extended periods of observation; meaning in fact extended periods of feeding his obsession and fantasising about taking Beckett home with him, which only leave him mentally and physically frustrated; but though Beckett seems to appreciate his visits – or at least she doesn't threaten to maim or kill him more than once per hour – there's no hint at all that she might want a more intimate form of company, and any time he implies the possibility he's shut down hard. He doesn't like this case, he decides. In other cases, there's been more room for him to speculate and theorise and help and most importantly be involved. And of course to flirt and annoy Beckett until she shifts from irritation to anger to hot and then to the physical. So far on this one there's nothing to theorise about, and no involvement.

The fewer results there are, the more Beckett retreats into her own little world where there is nothing and no-one but the case, and the more tension there is around her desk in the bullpen. He'd like to take her away from it, even for an hour, relax her. But there's not a single opportunity, not a chance for that to happen, and with every hour that she passes in the precinct she's strung more tightly.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. Please keep telling me what you think._

_Hope all of you in the US had a good 4th of July._


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: Sleeping in my memory**

It takes three days for them to run out of data gathering: to finish tracking down previous robberies, where no death had intervened; to prise the papers out of the other precincts and then to make contact with the victim's daughter and invite her in for a second discussion. The only pattern is that there is no pattern, no connection outside the enormously expensive jewellery that's been stolen, unless you count the escalating level of violence.

Castle's interestedly watching Beckett interview the daughter, who is wholly unimpressed that there have been other cases, and no solution. She's hardly calmed by Beckett's assurances, clearly thinking that they're simply soft platitudes with no meaning. He rocks to attention when Beckett shoots that down.

"Joanne. Listen to me. You're going to want to play out every possible scenario in the next couple of days. If only you'd been there. If only you'd come by. If only you didn't work late. And I'm telling you, it's not your fault. The ones to blame are the monsters that murdered your mom. This isn't a speech. It's not a platitude. It's a promise. I am going to do everything in my power to make sure that they pay for what they did."

He hasn't heard her speak like this since she admitted her brief history. So much pain, still. How does she bear it? Shouldn't she be relieved of that pain? He remembers his illicit copy of her file, and makes a mental note to call Clark Murray to see if he's ready to look at the photos yet. He doesn't want to see her unhappy, if he can make it better. Which he can. It'll just take a little time. (_I'm sorry, mommy. I can make it better.)_ He walks her along to the soda machine, manages to slide a comforting hand over her back as she goes: not that it makes the slightest difference to her set shoulders and more firmly set expression. He missteps as soon as he tries to compliment her on how she'd dealt with Joanne. He's given her the impression that he thinks she was insincere, or alternatively that he's trying to find out more for his own nefarious purposes. Neither is true, though in the second case that might be wholly inadvertent.

Whichever she believes, Beckett throws his sympathy back in his face, and changes the subject rapidly as they leave, arguing about how he gets such good reviews. Since when do cops – even Stanford educated cops – read the New York Review of Books? _He_ doesn't even read the New York Review of Books, unless it's reviewing his latest work.

"Oh, so many layers to the Beckett onion. However will you peel them all?" Beckett's being viciously sarcastic. He'll deal with that.

"How will I peel them all, Beckett?" There are no cameras in the elevator. (He checked. Exceedingly carefully.) He traces her jaw and down the centre of her neck, runs a swift hard finger down to her waist and slides hands under her shirt and over her back. "The same way I'll peel off these layers. Carefully, and slowly, and with infinite attention to the detail it reveals." It had been a rhetorical question. She only hopes that this is a rhetorical answer. She doesn't want her past dragged up, with or without attention to detail. His fingers are playing over her ribs. She pulls away and tucks her shirt back in just as the elevator stops.

"Get off, Castle." He smiles slowly. They won't be in the precinct in a moment, and then there will be considerably fewer restrictions. None, in fact, except the risk of Beckett saying _No_. It's the first time he's managed to get her away from her desk in days, and he's not going to let it go to waste without a fight.

"C'mon, Beckett. Let's go for a drink." Beckett considers. She's weary, mentally exhausted, and she's achieved little today. She should go home and sleep. She needs, she thinks, a distraction from the case: she's given it everything and nothing is helping. She needs a break from it, and if she goes home alone now, she'll just keep circling uselessly through hours of insomnia. The potential for an hour or two's distraction, however, is standing right beside her. She's proved that she's still firmly, wholly, focused on her duty and her dead. She has to afford herself a rest, because she's pushing too hard on nothing.

"Okay. Where?"

"I know this bar. It's quiet, and off the main track. Needs a bit of smartening up, but the beer's still good."

"Lay on, MacDuff."

"You got it right! No-one gets it right."

"Some of us are educated, Castle. Cops don't just spring from dragon's teeth full formed with shield and gun, you know."

"And now you're referencing Greek mythology. That is so _hot_." There is, however, far more boyish enthusiasm in his voice than seduction, and he's grinning like a six-year old at a softball game. "C'mon, get in the cab. We can trade quotations – who said it, or where it came from - over a beer. Bet I win."

"Bet you don't."

A couple of beers later it's evens. Beckett's disallowed quotations in Latin and Greek, and Castle won't allow her anything in any modern foreign language in return. English only. Neither of them have missed one yet. Beckett's relaxed into the game, terrifyingly competitive but without the frantic, have-I-missed-something look in her eye that's been present since they were first called in. Castle notes it with some relief, and sidles a little closer to her in the booth. Beckett regards him with some suspicion, but doesn't say anything.

"Rosy-fingered dawn," Castle says, with an air of _look-how-clever-I-am._

"Seriously, that's the best you can do?" He looks hurt. "Homer's Odyssey."

"You must spend your time reading books of quotations. Huh. Your turn."

"The voice of the turtle." Castle looks thoroughly happy, and slides a little closer still without Beckett noticing.

"Alice in Wonderland." Beckett bounces triumphantly on her seat.

"You lose. I win."

"What? I'm right."

"No you're not. You're thinking of the Mock Turtle. You're wrong and I've won." She's smirking so widely her face will split, shortly.

"Don't believe you."

"What do I get for winning? I want a prize." She's just a little buzzed. "You lost, so you have to get me a prize, Castle. Don't worry, a packet of M&M's will do nicely. It's the principle of the thing."

"You haven't won. I'll prove it." He taps out a search on his phone's browser. Beckett sits back with her beer and smirks some more. Castle's face falls. "I lost? How can I have lost?" He pouts. "You must have cheated."

"Nope. I'm just a better man than you." Castle growls low in his chest.

"I don't think so," he rasps. And since there's no-one to see in the dim light over this dingy, back-of-the-room booth, he kisses her, because he's wanted to since Sunday morning, when she wasn't there when she should have been; pulls her into him and holds her there, delicately exploring her mouth till her hands come up round his neck to keep him in place. He eventually lifts off a little, before he takes this to places that even this empty bar might object to.

He can think of a better prize than M&Ms for Beckett. He smiles slowly. "Drink up. It's time we went home." Beckett raises an eyebrow, but before she can object he carries on. "To get your prize, of course. I need to find a store before they all close. I pay my bets on the nail."

" 'Kay."

She must be tired, or buzzed. She hasn't objected that he's been kissing her – almost in public – and she's letting him take her home. Letting him take care of her. Though he's not exactly making it obvious that's what he's doing, and he's also pretty sure that some of the ways he's intending to take care of her aren't on the AMA's approved list. They will be on the Beckett approved list, though. Very shortly. If she thinks that she doesn't want taken care of, well, he'll play that game for now.

There's a 7-Eleven across the street, and Castle ceremoniously purchases a packet of – hang on. Those aren't M&Ms.

"Hershey's Kisses, Castle?"

"Kisses are so much more romantic, Beckett." He stops on an evident thought. "What's your name? You haven't told me your name." Beckett smiles with the same infuriating blandness as a cat.

"Not telling you. That's my secret." She will tell him. Later. He'll persuade her. He goes back to the main matter.

"Don't you think Kisses are a better prize?" She hrrumphs with trademark irritation. But a triumphant smirk keeps peeking out, however hard she tries to suppress it. She likes winning.

"Really, Castle? Cops don't do romance." He fakes a swoon.

"Beckett, Beckett. I'm completely heartbroken that you won't accept my Kisses. How shall I recover from the tragedy this heartless Ice Queen has wrought?"

"I don't know, Castle. How about entering a Trappist monastery?" He clasps both hands over his heart in a wholly theatrical gesture he must have learned from his mother.

"You've stabbed me through the heart, Detective. The only hope is for you to accept these Kisses." And he presents her with the bag as if it were handmade chocolates from MarieBelle. Beckett thinks sulkily that he probably buys chocolates from MarieBelle any time he likes. She treats herself once a month, from there. Strictly once a month, and she never, ever shares them.

"Thank you" she says with grace. Her smirk makes it clear that she's still crowing internally. She's so smugly content that she even assents when Castle snags a cab and inserts them both. In the cab Castle possesses himself of Beckett's hand without so much as a by-your-leave and occupies the first stage of the journey by drawing soft, seductive patterns on it. Much to his surprise, and considerable delight, she doesn't object.

Beckett is, in fact, not really conscious of what Castle's doing. She's run herself ragged chasing shadows for four days, and as the tide of adrenaline that's buoyed her up ebbs, she's weary. She realises, surprised, that she hasn't been irritated with Castle once since he'd suggested a drink – which is certainly a record, because he irritates her every other minute (except in bed, a hissing voice slithers into her mind) – and that, just like at Po, she's actually had an enjoyable, amusing time. And, of course, she won. Indeed, although she's physically still a bit tired, her mind is clearer: she's lost the frantic searching for any small clue, re-visiting every item over and over, even in sleep. She thinks that sleep tonight might bring refreshment, not reproach.

She wiggles a little to get more comfortable and discovers that in some mysteriously unnoticeable fashion she appears to be wiggling herself into the crook of Castle's arm. That was sneaky, she thinks. When did that arm move? She ought to be annoyed. But being annoyed would take more effort than she currently has energy for, and she can't be bothered to try to summon any energy. So she simply accepts.

Beckett hasn't realised – hasn't let herself realise, just as she always does with anything she doesn't want to think about, anything that might force her to reassess her solitary life – that since Castle proved useful – _saved your life, Kate_ – her underlying view of him has undergone another shift, to encompass the concept of _partner_: someone on whom she can rely to have her back. She can, in fact, trust Castle on and off the job.

Castle is thinking alternately _this is very nice_ and _what the hell_ depending on whether he's thinking with his body or his brain. Body is of the view that he should tuck Beckett in more tightly and not let her go. Brain is pointing out that at some point Beckett will realise that she is snuggling – of her own volition! – and will stop, likely with some violence. Body says he could prevent that by moving his gently stroking fingers from her hand to her leg. Brain says _no_, take it easy, control yourself, accustom her to petting, not just wildly hot sex. Currently brain and body are in a hard-fought draw. Brain wins out when they reach her apartment.

Castle pre-empts Beckett's reach for her wallet and without actually mentioning it manages to be in her block and in her elevator before Beckett remembers that she hadn't actually asked him up. Though she probably would have, if she'd thought about it. Just as a distraction.

"Is this you being a gentleman, Castle, or practising for being a good loser next time?"

"A gentleman. I won't lose, so I don't need to practice being good at it." Beckett makes a rude noise.

"So what was that earlier?"

"An aberration."

"Better get used to … aberrations, then." She unlocks her door, turns to peep up at him. "Want a coffee?" She grins. "I'll even share my winnings."

"Coffee would be great, thanks." He follows her inside, and while she heads for her kitchen, he prowls around her apartment, looking for little bits and pieces which will go to make up Nikki – so he tells himself. He's really looking for clues and tells, to strip a layer from the Beckett onion, in her words: to get under her skin and learn, own, more of her story, in his. He hasn't previously paid any attention to her apartment except to find the bedroom, being far more interested in its occupant. It's… eclectic, he decides. Stuffed bookshelves, mostly murder mysteries with a leavening of classic literature, and a Kindle on the table too. Unusual pictures, not a style he's ever seen, of snow, and onion-shaped green and gold domes on blocky buildings. It dawns on him that they must be from Ukraine, or maybe Russia. But she doesn't know he knows that. _Careful, Rick. Be very careful._ He peers at the delicate watercolours more closely.

"Suzdal," Beckett's clear tones ring out behind him, making him jump.

"Suzdal?"

"Town outside Moscow." She turns away, picks up and fondles a small white stone bear from its green plinth. "Jade, supposedly. I got it at Lake Baikal." Castle looks momentarily blank. "A long way East in Russia. Next stop is Outer Mongolia." Swift memory dances through her eyes. "I flew from Moscow, six hours, five time zones. Nearly three thousand miles, and all there is on the ground below are birch trees, all the way. I landed at night. The sky was so clear, and the stars were all different, somehow."

Castle lifts one of the two framed photos beside where the bear had rested, looking at the silhouetted figure. The question is apparent in the silence.

"Fishermen on the lake. They catch _omul_ – it's white fish, very good. I took them at sundown, with the light skimming over the lake in front of me." Her voice is softer, fading. She's not really talking to him at all, Castle perceives, but floating in memories six thousand miles from here, ten years past. "It was beautiful: wholly remote and untamed; unbelievably primitive, for a modern country. Old women still drew water from the lake; carried buckets on a yoke across their shoulders; the houses are wooden with fretwork eaves painted bright colours, just one big room divided by curtains, no running water inside except one cold tap. It's forty below, outside, in winter. I was there in fall, when the trees were golden."

He could never, would never, have expected this poetic, lyrical description from Beckett. Suddenly he knows that Nikki will have travelled. And then she puts the bear back on its plinth with a sharp click of stone on stone, the noise breaking her mood.

"And then I moved back to New York and became a cop." The weight of the words bends the air around her. Castle doesn't say anything for a moment, still staring at the silhouettes, realising that she's opened up, showed him a little more of who she is. Another layer.

But she's closed down again, padded over and drawn her feet up on to her couch, arms wrapped round her knees, two mugs of coffee steaming on the table in front of her. The mist of memories still shrouds her. He comes to sit on the couch, not willing to recall her further to cold reality, coddling her between the arm of the furniture and his own large frame, settling an arm behind her. He's still caught by this soft, poetic Beckett; as he had been when she'd talked about her history before; and now, even more than he wants to take her to bed (though that is always an attractive option) he wants to hold her, peel her hard gloss shell away and heal the injuries that time has dealt her.

He succumbs to temptation without a struggle and hoists Beckett into his lap. After an instant's stiffening, she clearly decides that it's okay, and relaxes into him. If it weren't Beckett, who's normally slightly less cuddly than a porcupine, he's call it a snuggle. It's odd, he muses. He's not normally inclined to snuggling on couches like a pre-teen, either. Hot sex, now… But right now, Beckett feels very comfortably – and very comfortingly – right, tucked in his embrace. Maybe some kisses, a little making out, shortly. Maybe, tonight, a softer form of addiction, though no less permanent, to match this softer Beckett. He doesn't even register his own word choices, as he nuzzles her hair, as he strokes gently at her waist, as he cossets her close and hopes that she'll accept this for a little longer; that she won't spot that he's – rather successfully, he preens – taken care of her.

Beckett's let her mind drift, unconfined, through the memories of Kiev, Ukraine, and Russia, her travels; long ago and far away. Once upon a time… The mood she thought she'd closed off has re-descended, and she's only tangentially aware of Castle next to her, the brief interruption as he arranges her on his lap, the slow heartbeat under her ear forming a backing track to the ebb and flow of the tiny tides in Lake Baikal, or on the shores of the Black Sea, merging into the sound of the waves rippling. Once upon a time, long ago and far away, before her whole world changed. She remembers it always being sunny, crisp, clean blue sky in fall, chasing away the harder dusty blue of the scorching, airless summer. The season had changed in a single day, from summer to fall; she'd woken one morning to a freshness, a bite in the air; the earth altered when she sauntered through the streets and parks of Kiev.

Only short months later the season of her life had changed, as irrevocably as the winter comes.

Then, she'd wished for her father to be there, like this. He never had been, after that first sharp changed day, and then she had held him above the water, until she had to let go before he drowned them both. The seasons of his life had turned, too. But still, when she'd needed warmth in the winter of their grief, there was no room at her father's hearth. Jack Daniels had occupied that space, instead.

This warmth is not her father, not there to soothe her grief, just a brief respite before she takes up her load again. Comfort, solace, closure: these are things she delivers to others, not something she requires for herself.

She straightens up and pulls a little away, the smooth lacquer of her professional shell snapping into place as hard and fast and sharp as the blade of a guillotine. She looks at Castle, who's acquired that same oddly assessing expression that he's only displayed when she's revealed something _and_ he doesn't think she's watching. She also becomes aware that he's holding her in that curiously protective way that she's noticed after sex. She moves sharply off his lap and speaks in her normal clipped, brisk tones.

"I spent a semester in Kiev, did some travelling that summer."

And there it is again, Castle thinks, not in the slightest surprised. The Beckett brush-off: closeness, feelings, openness; all swept up into the hard vacuum of her self-control, and disposed of. In a moment, she'll either throw him out, or start the dance. He realises, bleakly, that she's hiding her soul behind the wants of her body. He should refuse her, but he wants her, and surely if he gives her what she needs she'll open up?

"Sounds fascinating," he says, completely sincerely. Beckett shifts uncomfortably, wanting to move away from her history. Time for a diversion.

"I don't think you'd have liked it, Castle. Not where I was. You strike me as someone who likes their creature comforts." Her smile is delicately malicious, and openly inviting. Ah. The dance. Ah well. He'll dance with her, if dancing's her desire. He'll be her dance partner. The only partner she'll need, in the dancehall or out of it.

"I'll admit I like comfort." He acquires a lazy, sleepy smile that reminds her irresistibly of a leopard she'd seen in some zoo, long ago. "You know what?"

"What?" she replies suspiciously. She knows there's a trap lurking. She can feel it in the undergrowth of the conversation. She just hasn't spotted it yet.

"I could do with some comfort now." She looks thoroughly sceptical.

"What's the problem, Castle? My couch not up to your standards?"

"Not at all. A different sort of comfort."

"Uh-huh. Sure you could."

"I need comforted. I'm all upset 'cause you won." He fakes a look of blinding realisation. "You said you'd share your kisses."

"Hershey's, Castle. Hershey's."

"You didn't specify." His face is innocent, but his eyes are dark and intent. "So I will." He pulls her firmly back on to his lap and takes advantage of her outraged splutter to invade her mouth, briefly.

"Mmm. I feel a little better. I'm not completely comforted, though. You need to share another one." This time he takes it more slowly, nudges at her lips till she opens to him, balances her, hands at her waist, as she pivots to straddle him and _oh that is right where she ought to be_. One hand lands at the nape of her neck, the other at the base of her spine, and for now at least she will _stay put_. He holds her tighter against his chest; dives deeper, harder into her mouth; flexes his hips to grind into her and when she wriggles and makes little sexy noises he is definitely wholly comforted. Not comfortable, though. Definitely not comfortable.

* * *

_Thank you all for your reviews. I really appreciate your thoughts. All logged in reviews are answered._


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: Take me to the place that you go**

This hadn't been quite the plan. Admittedly, it hadn't _not_ been the plan either. It's a very effective distraction, from the case, from her weariness and most importantly from her past. For both of them. Beckett slides quite deliberately against Castle, feels the powerful, answering thrust of his hips and a sharp flex in the grip of his hands, moves down from his clever, searching mouth to kiss against his thrumming pulse, to nip sharply where his neck meets the hard muscle of his shoulder, to force his groan. The way he's got her pinioned, she can't reach much of anything else. But. She's won once tonight, she intends to win again. Even if she eventually loses, she'll still win. Win-win. Mmmm.

But she can't open her score sheet until she can move. Right now, moving is less than easy. However. If in doubt – cheat. Her hands are free. His are not. The placing of his hands leaves him wide open to attack. She strikes with cobra speed.

He squeals. Actually, positively, squeals like a girl. And squirms, and wriggles, and squeals again. She reduces him to hopeless breathlessness in short order and before he knows where he is she's opened his shirt and his belt and is attacking his pants while he's still trying to capture her hands. Her victory lasts a whole ten seconds before he rolls to trap her beneath him, recovers enough to try to catch her hands, but she's too quick, and too clever, and her fingers are _evil_. When he does catch them he pins them firmly above her head and leans his weight on top of her.

"You cheated," he growls slowly and direfully.

"Brains are better than brawn, Castle. I've got brains."

"You cheated," he says again, darkly.

"No, I took advantage of your areas of vulnerability." She smirks nastily. "You're ticklish." He removes one hand from holding her wrists and runs it down to her ribs. It has absolutely no effect at all. "And I'm not."

"Maybe not," Castle says in a slow, interested sort of way, "but you cheated. Remember what happened last time you cheated?" She does. Oh yes. Her breath catches, her eyes widen. Her smug smirk shifts into a slumberous, parted-lipped smile, promising silky delights.

"I didn't cheat," she murmurs, allurement soaking each word. "You're just claiming I did because you can't stand losing." She runs her tongue over her lips, deliberately. "What are you going to lose tonight, Castle?" The air is sultry, the edge of danger, darkness, creeping closer. Castle's lost his air of happy good humour, and is gazing down at her with hard-edged intent.

"I'm not going to lose anything. You are. You're going to lose all your clothes, and then all your control. You've had your fun, and now I'm going to have mine." She moves restlessly under him. His voice drops into the deep, dominating velvet baritone that doesn't bother with her ears but strokes straight between her legs. "Will you play nice, Beckett? Or do I need to ensure you can't cheat again?" She squirms, but she's not conceding anything yet.

"Now who's cheating?" she husks. "Can't you manage on your own?"

"Oh, I can. Just like this." He keeps hold of her wrists, slides off to kneel beside the couch, slowly and deliberately strips her to her underwear one-handed, slipping her scarlet top over her head, sliding down her pants. "That's better." His fingers dance along her ribs, his mouth whispers over her throat and across her neck. He knows she's expecting predatory hard possession, but this is his game now and he'll decide the plays. Addiction comes in so many different forms. (_Just a little taste. Please. I need it._) He flickers across her so lightly she's barely aware he's touching, avoiding any area that's still clothed. She whimpers and pulls against his imprisoning hand.

"Uh-uh." He kisses delicately across her stomach and follows that by tracing his fingers upward from her knee. Her anticipation is palpable. "Let's take this elsewhere." He picks her up in one smooth motion and carries her into her bedroom, spreading her out across the bed and letting the heat in his eyes scorch over her.

"You look unwarrantedly innocent in that cream lingerie, Beckett. Almost virginal." He smiles darkly, and simply the look on his face makes her writhe, stretch out wantonly and flex. "Wanna play a game?"

"A game?" and there's a catch in her voice that has nothing to do with nervousness. She looks back at him with answering desire; Lorelei on her rock. "Still _cinnamon,_" consenting with that one word to the next step, the next stage; sinking for the third time.

"We'll need a silk scarf. Got one of those?" but of course she'll have one, and more, of those; he's sure of that.

"Just one, Castle?" She sounds almost disappointed, but she directs him to a drawer from which he selects one of many: soft, heavy cream silk, perfect for the purpose. He leaves the drawer open.

"You like touch, don't you, Beckett?" She hums assent. "Touch can be so much more fulfilling, if there's no other sense competing with it. So much more intense." He folds the scarf lengthwise, and sees realisation dawn in her eyes, swiftly followed by the deep green flare of heat. She reaches out to him, and doesn't speak. He blindfolds her gently, snugs the scarf around her head and ensures that the knot won't… interfere.

Beckett lies still, adjusting to the soft slither of the silk against her face and the lack of sight. She'd expected, wanted, a different game, and it's taken her by surprise that he isn't exploring the other reasons for a drawer full of silk scarves. Not that she's used them for that, in some while. Sorenson hadn't been interested. She's worn them, instead, and let the other possibilities fill her edgier dreams. For a moment nothing happens; and the lack of external sensation sends ripples under her skin as she waits, heat blooming within her, each still, silent second sending anticipation through her bones and muscles, stoking her higher. She can hear Castle moving around the room, stepping softly so that she has to concentrate to establish where he might be. He doesn't speak, the loudest sound her own breathing; and as she waits, sure without being sure how she can know that he's watching her with hot possession and raw lust, she senses the air shift around her, his bulk settle on to the bed and a finger run softly along the edge of the blindfold. Without sight, she can't tell where he might go, can't foresee his actions. All she can do is react. She reaches for him once again, but his hands aren't where she's blindly searching, and suddenly his weight has lifted from the bed, but still he doesn't talk. The very silence is itself arousing, keeps her focused on the heat in her veins and the prickle of desire along her nerves, here in her voluntary darkness. And then he does speak, softly, a little distance away: by her dresser, so that she has to strain to hear clearly.

"I'll choose where to touch you, where to kiss you. Time to give in, Beckett. You know what you want. You want to let go. I'll take you there, just like you want me to." There's a very slight tension to his voice, only noticeable because there are no other distractions. "Just the way you want me to." The air moves again and the faint scent of his cologne drifts past her. He must be closer, moving as silently as night falling; and then he draws a soft wet line across her mouth, parting her lips with his tongue to claim entry, sure of his welcome. Too soon he moves away, pauses, the small shifts of his weight giving no clue about where, or how, he might next touch. This time it's a firm line from knee to thigh, hard dry fingertips. She mews softly, opens to give him access, is left waiting for a touch that doesn't come. He teases more: blows warm air across her navel, wet strokes at her collarbone and firm fingertips below her knees, leaves her gasping and twisting. He hasn't touched a single erogenous zone, and yet she's damp and hot and becoming frantic as he takes off her bra. Without sight, perception, without foreshadowing of his actions, she's left lost in the sensations with no ability to prepare herself. It's scandalously erotic, but she wants more. The next time he touches her she catches him, pulls his hand to where she'd like it, sliding it up over her breast and pushing into his palm. He doesn't resist her upward tugging, but carries on upward, switching grip so that he's caught her wrists. He places her hands above her head.

"I said I'd take you there; I'd decide where and when to touch you. Not you." She feels the soft touch of silk on her wrists, a twist of fabric figure-eighting round them – that's smooth, she thinks, and wonders with a midnight thrill what else he might be planning – the gentle tug of the knot. Firm hold without discomfort. She hears, through heightened senses, more fabric slithering across itself, and is instantly soaked. She understands what's happening, and she wants it. When he lets go of her wrists, she knows she's tethered; that her hands are no longer free. Dark desire pools in the sheen gathering on her collarbone, hardens her nipples further, flushes her cheeks under the silk blindfold. When Castle touches her she moans.

"Kiss me."

"When I'm ready. My way, Beckett." He runs his tongue up the inside of her leg and she moans louder, opening wider to him, squirming as he breathes hotly against the wet scrap of cream satin she's still wearing. "I said you'd lose. Your clothes, and your control. Just the way you like it." For the first time, he deliberately glides a finger over her panties and watches her buck and tug against her bonds. "You like that. Don't you?" She doesn't answer, panting. "Answer me, Beckett. Do you like this?" And he does it again, a little harder.

"Yes." But he's changed tack, and now he's palming her breasts, rolling her nipples till she whimpers and moans and arches her back against his hands. He's too good at this, and she can't move freely, and _fuck_ it's so hot and just the way she wanted it. She lets go of her mind and lets her body take over.

By the time he returns to slip her panties down her legs she's emitting formless noises of need, sensation burning through her every place he touches, turning up the ratchet of her desire notch by notch. He kisses her hungrily, devouring her; forceful and dominating and wholly intent on bringing her to screaming culmination before he slakes his own need; slips down her body, scraping teeth and stubble and leaving sharp nips, tiny bites, small marks of possession where only she will see them; spreads her wide and holds her apart, naked and open to him, wholly unable to deny him anything, for now, wholly and completely _his_. He draws a delicate wet line at the crease of her thigh.

"Are you mine?" He draws another one. This time, she doesn't hesitate, and the rush of satisfaction leaves him breathless.

"Yes. Castle. Don't tease." And a third, nearer.

"Are you sure?" She writhes and moans, desperate for the sensation and wholly centred on touch and sound.

"Yes. Stop _teasing_." Yet again he strokes, ever closer, never there.

"Say it." He breathes out hoarsely, over her. "Say it, Beckett." He licks delicately again, so close, tastes her and it's _not enough_ as she twists, held, trapped and blind, at his mercy; so he traces her with his tongue and she almost screams but it _isn't enough_ and "Say it. Say it for me," and this time…

"Yours. I'm – _ohhh – _yours." And he tongues her more firmly and she screams and shatters as soon as he does.

But that's not enough for him. He'd promised to take her to wherever she wanted, to let her let go, and he always, always keeps his promises. He's only just begun.

None of which means that he can't enjoy the dance too.

He slides gently up and unties the blindfold, kisses her closed eyes, unties her hands. She might like that game, and to tell the truth so does he: Beckett tied to the bed and open to him is a vision he'll see in every hot hard dream, but he also likes it when her arms come round him, her nails bite into the muscle of his shoulders, his back; he likes her hands in his hair. He likes knowing that he's holding her still with only the bulk of his body and the power in his muscles. He lays an arm over her, slides the other under her neck and leans propped on his elbow, tucking close in to cuddle her until she revives. He wants to see her, this time, wants her to see him.

Beckett opens her eyes slowly and discovers that Castle's looking down at her. She also realises that she's no longer restrained. She flexes, stretching and arching sinuously from her shoulders, slightly aching in a way that she'd forgotten that she loved, down through the ripple of her abs and a lift of her hips, all the way to the extension of her ankles and toes. Castle gulps in a breath at the sight.

"Like what you see, Castle?" she murmurs invitingly.

"Oh, yes. Naked and lissom and wet and _all mine_." The hot notes of ownership buttress each word. The arm around her shoulders tugs her closer in, so that he's pressing against her hip, no possibility that she can doubt his desire for her. His other hand skims over her, cups her, and she gasps in air in her turn, brought back up to the apex of the arch by only that touch, turns to him and drags his head down to her seeking lips, takes his mouth and flips him on to his back where she can slide over him and place him exactly where she wants. Exactly where, from the buck of his pelvis, he wants. She slides down a little further on to him, releases his mouth and nips sharply over his clavicle, soothing the sting with tongue and lips. And then his hands are on her waist and she doesn't have control of the pace or the game any more: he's holding her still and he's not moving and _fuck_ that is driving her further up because she wants him deeper, filling her full, hard and thick and long and all the way inside her.

"Trying to take charge, Beckett? We can't have that. This isn't the precinct now." She essays a wriggle, but though he inhales sharply his grip on her doesn't change. He moves her: a little up, a little down. Her breathing becomes choppier, harsher.

"Isn't that interesting, Beckett?" he rasps. "You thought you were on top but you're still on the bottom." He sounds rather smug. He moves her again, a little up, a little further down on the return stroke. She squirms against him, trying to take him deeper. "Let go, Beckett. I'll give you what you need. Just let go." It's half a plea, half a command, and it registers on her hindbrain before her conscious mind catches up with it.

She stops all resistance and simply lets him move her, each glide a little deeper, a little harder; till the rhythm of his breaths changes to match hers and the smooth slides become sloppier; and then he flips them over so she's under him and he's wholly inside her and he slides a hand down between them and circles her and oh_ this_ is what he wants, Beckett screaming out his name and begging him for more, deeper, harder; under him and around him and only aware of him as he's only aware of her; neither of them sure where one stops and one begins. _Together_, he thinks. And then there's nothing but the movement and the moment and release and _her_.

Letting go of her is a bad idea. It's always a bad idea, because as soon as he lets go of her she pulls away, whether it's physically, by leaving, or mentally, by putting up her shutters. Unfortunately, much as he wants simply to hold her spooned against him and explore her further, it's late and he has to go home. But he can be cool about it: as casual as she; he can hide how much he'd rather stay. She doesn't want taken care of, she doesn't want a relationship, she doesn't care if he stays or not. _She_ doesn't stay.

"I have to go. I have to get home to Alexis." He moves away, and the cool air washes over her back.

" 'Kay." She sits up, perfectly assured in her nakedness, and smiles, watching him dress. It's a nice show. "See you tomorrow."

"Till tomorrow," he says calmly, and wishes that she'd sounded more regretful – indeed, regretful at all – that he's going.

Beckett eases herself out of bed when she hears the outer door close and begins to run a bath, heavy on the salts. Partly it's to soothe her muscles: Castle's a big man, all ways up, and she feels a little stretched; partly it's to soothe her mind. She'd revealed too much, and she's sure he's spotted it, sure he'll feed his story from the table of her memories. More, she realises, she'd taken comfort from his presence, and now he's gone she wishes he hadn't; wishes that he'd stayed. But she wouldn't have asked, because that's not what this is about. She doesn't need taken care of. He said that wasn't what he wanted to do either. That's what they'd both agreed. She's perfectly happy with that. Perfectly happy. She tells herself that all the way through her nice hot bath, which for some unknown reason is much less comforting than usual.

She curls up around the pillow that still smells of Castle's expensive cologne and tells herself that it's all organised just as she wants it. No muss, no fuss, no relationship, no problem.

No chance of getting hurt.

She doesn't ask herself why she feels she can trust Castle to have her back when the bullets fly; to stop at the most intimate points if she asked; to take her places she's never trusted any man to take her – and yet she won't trust him with her given name or her emotions or her story. Instead she falls fast asleep, only waking to her alarm and a new day.

Castle picks up a cab almost instantly – no shortage of those in Manhattan – and settles into the back seat to think. He's not wholly satisfied with the evening. He's peeled a layer of skin, sure, but she'd diverted, distracted, danced away. There's no point questioning her: she doesn't answer, she's not amenable to interrogation. But then again… She hadn't fought it: him, or herself, really; not the way she has done. She'd stepped into the dance almost instantly, given up and given in to him and let him take her everywhere she wanted. He's not sure why: maybe tiredness, maybe simply that she wanted to cover the exposure of her soul by exposing her body and forgetting everything in the white rush of release.

Much later, he lies awake in his own bed; wide and empty, but still, somehow, he's surrounded by the feeling of her; and ponders the mystery of a woman so very, very comfortable with the dark-smudged aspects of sexuality and so very, very uncomfortable with openness and emotion.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. I appreciate all of your thoughts._


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: Dig a little deeper**

The morning does not bring enlightenment, but at least Beckett's not as tired and drained any more. That is to say, she's only half-exhausted. And, to her amazement, when she returns from another fruitless canvass the boys have found something. It's a thin, thin thread, almost invisible, but it's the first they've had. A man who specialises in a very particular form of locksmithing. Lock-picking with a bump key, to be precise. He's remarkably confident that they can't pin anything on him. His alibi is so fictitious it belongs in one of Castle's early novels, but his pals will undoubtedly back him up. He's so smug he'd give Castle a run for his money, too. Mind you, he doesn't think much of Castle. Mary with the Manicure? That's a nickname she'll remember. She tucks it into the back of her mind to snigger over later. The boys'll like it, too.

Sniggering, and any desire so to do, is stopped instants later when the slimeball across the table suggests that Castle's there because she needs help. _Needs help_? _Can't hack it alone_? She'll show this dirtbag who's in charge. A microsecond later the table's in his gut and he's wheezing as he talks. Unfortunately the bruises on his stomach don't incline him to say anything useful. At this point she'd cheerfully turn him to pulp. She doesn't need anyone to help. She doesn't need a partner. She can do this job and solve this case alone, and if it wasn't for orders she would do. Still, she can get rid of Writer-Boy and get some time on her own. She stops at the restroom once she's out of interrogation and doesn't return to her desk. She's been scraped down the raw edge of far too many comments about _girls on the job_, far too many references to _too cute to hack it _(she'd cut her hair even shorter the next day), far too many operations in Vice because she _looked the part_. She'd made it through the Academy and graduated top without any help at all, hadn't dared to look for it because it's far too easy to give the wrong impression and _everybody_ seemed to be looking for evidence of it. And then there'd been the final straw: the dead child.

She'd done it all herself, she's made herself the best detective she can be all by herself, she's made herself into the woman she now is all alone, and _nobody_, not this scum, not other cops, and _especially_ not Castle, is going to change that. She doesn't need help from outside her professional team, she doesn't need taken care of, and she doesn't need anyone to interfere in her life in any way. Dirtbag, in fact, has just pushed one of her nuclear buttons. She can't bear the thought that anyone would think she needs a _civilian_ to help her do cop work. She can't bear the thought that anyone would think she needs anyone else anywhere else in her life.

Beckett goes to the range to find peace and quiet and to relieve her towering frustration by shooting hell out as many targets as she can manage for as long as possible. It's not helping: she's not shooting well and every time she misses she gets angrier. Her shots get wilder as her temper gets hotter. Not only is she infuriated by the implication that she needs Castle to solve her homicides for her, she hates not being able to do anything at her best, and right now both her investigation and her shooting are conclusively not at their best. She's been rocked by the case: the similarities between herself and the victim's daughter, and that she'd exposed her own feelings to try to console her. If she'd thought that Castle had been listening that intently, she'd have sent him out before she started. She doesn't need his misconceptions nor yet his subsequent sympathy. He's got it all: he's never experienced tragedy or loss like it. He simply does not understand, and she resents him trying, resents his obvious interest and concern. She's _not_ a victim. Then she'd gone and compounded her own error by telling him about some of her past. She doesn't want concern, or intrusions into her history. And she definitely doesn't want help. She was the best detective in the Twelfth before he arrived and she'll still be the best long after he's gone.

And joy of joys, Castle turns up at the range. That's the problem with these old precincts: the range is in them. He's still looking at her with more concern than anything else and that just puts the tin lid on her fury. Then he tries to psychoanalyse her and if he doesn't shut up or get out she will be the lead suspect in a homicide case herself. Instead she tries and fails to kill another target, without any regard for Castle's ears. Maybe if he were deafened she could get rid of him. Even if she can't make him _go away_, if she's shooting she can't hear him. She reaches for a new clip, and surprise, surprise he's talking again. At least he's dropped the fake empathy: now he's just irritating. And she is certainly irritated. Not to say furious. (Deep inside, a little voice is telling her that this is certainly not Castle's fault. She's not listening.)

Castle had originally come down because he's had an idea about the case and wants to take the jewellery photos home to study them, and perhaps discuss them with one of his less official acquaintances. As an aside – who's he kidding? – he'd been a little worried about Beckett's reaction to Joanne and to his expression of concern, and more worried about how she'd reacted to the perp. He feels that she's slipping away from him again: that her walls are thickening; that she's turned right back on to the on-ramp to the freeway to burnout, and he's sure he won't be able to persuade her out of the precinct for an hour today even though she clearly needs to stop and regroup. Watching her shoot is not relieving his feelings. He's sure she must be considerably better than she's currently displaying. Then again, her rage is palpable. He decides on being irritating, because the alternative is to spin her round, pull her in and kiss her hard till she _sees_ him again, till she lets him bring her down; which idea is right now quite likely to get him shot, not necessarily accidentally. She puts three through the head, and for the first time since he came down looks partially satisfied. He hopes she isn't imagining it's him.

"Wouldn't it be more of a challenge if they weren't standing still?" Patronising jerk. What does he know about cop training?

"Okay, Castle, you show me how it's done." She bets he can't shoot properly. Why would he need to, anyway? He lives in Manhattan, not the Wild West. He might work out, but shooting well is a whole different ball game. He takes a stance. Really? That's his stance?

"It's not a duel, Scaramouche." Nope, not taught properly. What does he think this is, some pre-Mayflower English pistols-at-ten-paces affair? Ugh. Let's at least sort his stance out. If he's going to pretend to be a cop, he can damn well look the part. "Here, square off to the target, feet shoulder distance apart."

He is finding it desperately unhelpful to his concentration to have Beckett touching him. On the other hand, he knows something she doesn't… he's an excellent shot, just in a slightly different context. But it's so cute, the way she's trying to straighten him out, and she's closer than she's been all day. He'd do something about that, if he didn't have a gun in his hand. Looking like an idiot for a few minutes is a very small price to pay for having her snug against him, and he'll have his revenge very shortly. He expects that she'll be impressed by his ability, when he gets to the real challenge. He's got some ideas for relieving her frustration and evident upset, too.

"Whoa. Shot too soon." Maybe he shouldn't have been thinking about those ideas just then. Beckett is clearly unimpressed.

"Yeah, well. You know, we could always just cuddle, Castle." She inflects her words with as much sarcasm as she can manage through her unadulterated fury. She knew he wouldn't be able to shoot straight. He's just a writer. Not a help, or a support, or an anything. Just a writer who's good in bed.

And, clearly, keen on smartass remarks. Shame he can't hit the target – ouch! Can't hit the target but somehow manages to target _her _with the shell case. She wipes blood off her face. Blood. The perfect accessory for a perfect day with a perfect jerk. She's about to tell him to leave when he opens his fat mouth.

"You know, I came down to ask you if I could take home some of those stolen property photos?"

No. _No_. He is not taking crime photos again. He's an observer. She doesn't need his help to solve this. And surprise, surprise, he hasn't even got a good reason. No. And he still can't shoot. Though that one, right into the testicles, would incapacitate any man. Including male bystanders, as they wince in sympathy. Pretty useless on a female perpetrator, though. It would miss anything helpful. Right. Let's show him how hopeless he is.

"Tell you what, you put any of the next three in the ten ring and I will give you the files." He hasn't a hope in hell. The way he's shot so far, he couldn't put any of the next three hundred in the ten ring. She's perfectly safe.

"Yeah?" Oh, Beckett. Walked right into it. He can't resist a challenge. Never could. Even though he knows that in less than half a minute he will be in more trouble than ever got him thrown out of another school, he can't resist proving that he's more than she thinks. And he can stop her killing him. Probably. After all, she's put her gun down, and she's finished her clip.

"Yeah." _Game on_. And he squares up and puts all three in the ten ring in less than three seconds. That'll show her. Oh. Uh-oh. She's not happy. Oh _boy_, is she not happy. Death – his own – is reaching for him from her face. The last time he saw her this angry was… ooh. Was their first date. Shame the range has cameras. Far too many areas that Beckett frequents have cameras. If he ran the world… he'd lose some of these damn cameras, that's for sure. Because she's so very, very angry right now and all he'd have to do is touch her and she'd explode. Just like always. _Damn cameras_.

"You're a very good teacher," he smirks, in his best annoying tone. Except – uh-oh, that was a mistake. She doesn't look as if there's any arousal in this fury. In fact, there's an undertow of upset. Oh shit, this was not a good strategy. Maybe he can make it better.

She wants to hit him. If it wasn't for the cameras, she'd slap his stupid smirking stubbly face into the middle of next week. How _dare_ he play her like that? She spins on her heel to storm off and beat the crap out of the punchbag before she starts beating the crap out of Castle. She finds herself spun back.

"Hey, look" – he's trying to talk. She's not interested.

"Let go of me." She tries to shake him off with a sharp snap of her wrist. "Let _go_!" Her voice is rising. "I don't need your stupid games. Take the photos and _get out_." She snaps her wrist again and this time it works. She's out of his reach in an instant. He stands there, utterly confused. Suddenly that cold hard shuttering comes down and closes off all her emotion. "Take the photos, since you want them so badly, and get out. I don't need your _help_. I can solve this case on my own." She turns to leave, then turns back. "And don't come down to the range again. _Civilians_" – she could have said _sewer rats_ with less contempt – "have no place here."

He's left staring at her stiff-backed stride as she exits. He has absolutely _no_ idea what happened there. Okay, so maybe it wasn't the best plan to blindside her like that, but even for today's thoroughly bad-tempered Beckett that was unusually vicious. He sits down on a handy chair and tries to work out what's going on today. He'll have plenty of time. If Beckett's left – and he's sure she has – he'll need to get a cab backhome. Okay, back to the beginning. Being not today, but last night. She was fine when he left. At least he thinks she was. He wonders if she'd wanted him to stay, and dismisses the thought instantly. Miracles may happen, but Beckett wanting him to stay would qualify as the Angel Gabriel sounding the Last Trump.

Yeah. She couldn't have cared less if he stayed or not. She couldn't care less if _she_ stays or not. Just like five minutes ago. And suddenly he's not confused, he's angry. She had no right to behave like that: bitch-slapping him like he's the bad guy. People don't _do _that to him. He's _Rick Castle_, dammit, and he is not some pet to be kicked around. Whatever her reasons, it's more effort than he needs or wants to deal with them. He'll get the photos and go home. If Beckett doesn't want his help, fine. He'll just investigate on his own. See how far he can get. See how far she'll get without him, he thinks angrily. He ignores the undercurrent of his own hurt that she's pushed him away. She can have what she wants, then.

He goes back upstairs to the bullpen, where Beckett very obviously _isn't_, explains to an interested Ryan that Beckett's let him take the photos home in case he thinks of something overnight, and is completely _uninterested_ in hearing that Beckett came back in looking ripe for committing some murders of her own, snapped at both Ryan and Esposito for no reason at all, left them with a list of follow-ups all of which are a repeat of what's already been done and then left, claiming she was going to the morgue.

"Except," says Ryan, "that Lanie just called for Esposito to tell him something about an older case and Beckett's not at the morgue." He looks brightly at Castle. "What'cha do to annoy her today?"

"Existed, I think." Ryan nods sympathetically.

"I get you, man. She's always like this when a case doesn't pop. Not usually nearly so bad, though."

Castle's still pretty annoyed with her, but not so irate that he can't see why this one's hit Beckett so hard. Still, if she wants to be nasty, she can do it elsewhere. He's not her punchbag, and she can stew in her own angry juice for a while.

He tells himself all the way home that he doesn't need to deal with tears and tantrums (he had enough of that when Alexis was a toddler, and his mother keeps him in practice). He's never needed to. If some woman starts taking out her temper on him, he just walks away. Celebutante rows don't impress him. He'll just concentrate on the photos, and the case, and ignore Beckett.

And so that's what he does. For ten minutes. Then his ill-disciplined mind worries at the playback of the day for a while, till he drags it back to the photos. For another ten minutes. Repeat, on continuous loop, for the next two hours. Which only irritates him further. He never needs to deal with this crap. He doesn't want to deal with this crap. And he absolutely definitely doesn't need or want to go and find out what's actually wrong and make it better. Absolutely not.

But he keeps on seeing Beckett's rigid shoulders walking away from him. He keeps on thinking that more is wrong than he knows. He keeps on hoping that it wasn't he who put that cold, hard expression on her face – but he can't see that it was he who did. He keeps on thinking that in some way he doesn't understand this is partly his fault, but he's sure he hasn't done anything to cause it. And he keeps on thinking that he should go and make it better.

_Walking away, Rick. Away._ He forces the picture out of his mind and goes back to studying the photos. His mother is thoroughly impressed with the jewellery (maybe Christmas, he thinks. He'll surprise her, just like he had with the rubies he bought her from the Storm advances) and is soon cooing over the photos. Until it becomes clear that the best person on his extensive list of dubious contacts and persons who exist in the rather more shadowy walks of life is Powell. Powell, who Castle strongly suspects had an affair with his mother which hadn't ended well (ugh); Powell, who Castle had used as the basis for a character – and then forced into retirement and (not entirely, or at all, accidentally) away from his mother by thanking him in the dedication. By name. His mother didn't realise that Castle had known that she was unhappy: she just thinks he'd been his public, impulsive self. Well, no. Not really. People shouldn't upset the people he cares for. It won't end well for them.

Still, bygones should be bygones by now. That had been a few years ago.

Powell is not, it's fair to say, spectacularly welcoming. A swift, painful and entirely unexpected punch to the jaw is proof of that. But after those accounts are settled, he produces a very good red and they turn to business. He's useful, but to be truly helpful, Powell admits, he needs to see the crime scene. The police seals won't be a problem, he notes enticingly. Castle is only too willing to be enticed. He's still mad, he's still hurt, he is for some unimaginable reason feeling slightly as if it's his fault and he is damn well going to prove to Beckett that he's a valuable part of the team. Everyone else thinks so. Then she'll be sorry she walked away. A late night field trip seems like the very thing to improve his mood. And getting one over on Beckett absolutely has nothing to do with it. No. It's simply a piece of research. If he finds out anything useful he'll pass it on. To Ryan and Esposito.

Powell works his magic on the seals and door and gets them in. He's wholly unimpressed by the actions of the thieves: in his day they were ghosts, leaving no trace. Certainly not leaving brutal murder behind. No class at all. Powell's reminisces are thoroughly interesting, right up until the point someone tries the door. Castle's left standing in the middle of the room and Powell, as silently as the ghost he used to be, has faded into thin air, leaving not even a trace of ectoplasm to betray his presence.

Oh, _hell_. Of course. Who else would be at a closed, sealed crime scene at almost midnight? This is awkward. It's even more awkward that there's a gun on him. Funny how the barrel of a Glock looks so much larger when you're staring at the open end. He is very, very relieved when she holsters it. He was almost certain she isn't wired enough to shoot first and ask questions later. Almost.

Beckett hadn't gone to the morgue. After she'd left the range, she'd gone back to the bullpen, shut down for the day, and gone home. By the time she got there she was at least as miserable as furious: the lack of progress on the case, the lack of leads, her appalling shooting and being played by Castle all overlaying her real unhappiness: that people think she can't do it alone. Viperous voices hiss delicately around her mind: if a lowlife scum can think that in less than two minutes, what are the co-workers around the precinct thinking, or saying? How many people think that Montgomery let Castle in because she couldn't hack it? _After all_, a poisonous whisper slithers,_ you didn't solve the other case_. No. She can't go there. She mustn't go there. It's past, and her solve stats show that she's the best. She is. She can solve this case, too. All she needs is to work a little harder, dig a little deeper, put more effort in. Her dead demand it.

And it's not as if she's got anything else to do.

She'll go and look at the scene again, stand in the middle of it and see if it'll speak to her, tell her something new. See if there's anything she missed the first time, or the second, or the third. Maybe in the peace of the dark night she'll find something. She goes down to her car and goes over to the expensive apartment. Hmm. Her senses go on full alert and she unholsters her gun. The seals are broken, and she can hear the soft hum of voices inside. When she tries the handle, it's unlocked, and there's sudden silence. She goes in, gun up, ready to shoot. If there are bad guys in there, she's got to be ready, because there's only her. She's on a hair trigger, adrenaline pumping through her, ready for anything.

What the _hell_? Oh, for Christ's sake. What is he doing here? He has _no right_ to be here, invading her crime scene, contaminating the evidence, and just plain getting in the way. How did he get in? Oh, this day just gets better and better with every instant. She drops her gun, reluctantly.

The ride back to the precinct is very, very uncomfortable. Beckett is wrapped in an armour coating of glacial fury and Castle, whose own temper is roiling some way close to boiling point courtesy of an entirely unwarranted sting of guilt, is not willing to precipitate the shattering row which he's absolutely certain is going to explode at some point. Not yet, anyway. Later. Somewhere he can force some truth out of her without an interested audience.

Matters are not much improved back at the Twelfth. Beckett produces as well-acted a facsimile of her normal level of irritation as Castle has ever seen, but he can still see sheer ire dammed up underneath. If anything, it only burns harder when he says he wants to talk to their lock-picker – alone. He's had an idea. Everybody wants to be famous, don't they? And he needs a villain or two…

The man spills everything he knows about the real murders, just for the possibility that he might be a character in Castle's next best-seller. Montgomery's suitably impressed. Beckett – is not. Though she says all the right things in front of the boss.

Trouble starts the instant Montgomery's out the door.

* * *

_thank you to all reviewers. Your thoughts are very much appreciatedT_


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30: Ev'ry glove that laid him down**

"Have you finished yet?" Beckett's anger would cut diamond.

"Finished?"

"Finished proving how clever you are." It bites. "We all know you're clever. Finished showing off." Sharp fangs slash through her words. "We could have got that without you needing to get involved. We don't need your help. You're here to _observe_, not to visit crime scenes without a real cop with you or to start interviewing suspects. Back off." She pauses. "In fact, go home. Don't bother coming back until I call you. You've seen enough of this case." She turns her back on him and sits down at her desk, pulling a file towards her.

Castle doesn't move. "And if I don't? What if I don't go home? How're you gonna make me? You've had a bug up your ass since you interviewed Mitchell and you're taking it out on me." He takes a step towards her. She doesn't look round. He moves round in front of her and perches on the desk. "You don't get to use me as a punchbag. If I've screwed up, tell me. If it's something else, don't take it out on me." She still doesn't bother looking up, apparently concentrating on the file.

"Go home. I have work to do. I don't need your help." And Castle's annoyance boils over.

"Work? At midnight? Who are you trying to fool? You don't have work to do, you're just hiding." He grabs her chin and forces her head up to look at him. "You're hiding from whatever it is that's spooked you. You don't fool me, Beckett." And then he hears what she said. "So that's it. Sure, you don't need help. Oh no. You can do it all yourself. Is that why you're gonna spend another night here, spinning your wheels? You'd rather kill yourself than accept help from anyone?"

Emerald hate flashes in her eyes. "Solving crimes takes _work_, Castle. Not something you'd know anything about. You don't have a clue about what it takes so don't think you can help. You can't. Now get out and stop distracting me. The dead are important. Your temper tantrum is not."

And that just finishes him off. He loses his temper in a way he hasn't done in years, not since he caught Meredith in bed with her director. Even then, he probably hadn't been this furious. All control incinerates and all he cares about now is cutting her into the same shreds she's left him in.

"If the dead were as important to you as you claim you'd accept help from anyone. You're just lying to yourself. You don't care about the dead, you only care about solving the case on your own. You're a hypocrite, Beckett. You're just in it for the plaudits and promotion."

She moves so fast he doesn't see it coming till his head rocks back hard on his neck. "You _dare_ tell me I don't care? You _dare_?" She's standing over him. "You have _your_ mother murdered and then tell me I don't fucking care. Now _get out _and don't come back." She's off the precinct floor so fast he barely registers which way she's gone. Not to the elevator, but to the gym.

The pain in his face brings him back to himself. _Shit_, that had been stupid, and nasty in a way he tries never to be. She'd stabbed at him exactly where it would hurt most and he'd fought back just as viciously. He hadn't even meant it, he'd just wanted to hurt her as much as she'd hurt him. He thinks he knows what drives her, and it isn't personal glory. _Really mature, Rick. Both of you._ He flexes his jaw carefully. It's just as well she'd hit him open-handed. If she'd closed her fist she'd be nursing a broken hand, and he'd have a bruise the size of Nebraska. Both of which might be a little tricky to explain. He sits in his chair for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do. Walking away, going home, is not an option. Sitting here till Beckett comes back down will only give her another opportunity to hide behind her walls and snipe until they start a second round of fighting. He thinks he sees her: she's determined to prove she doesn't need his help and so she's trying to drive him away. No. Not happening, Beckett. (he doesn't ask himself why it's not going to happen. But he is _not done_ with her.) Which leaves the third option, going after her. Shame the body armour is locked away. He might need it.

When he peers around the doorframe into the dark gym he doesn't see Beckett at first. A second, more detailed look, as his eyes adjust to the lack of light, shows him that she's crumpled into a corner, back to the wall, head down on her knees. He can't hear anything, even her breathing. Even so, he's almost sure she's crying. He pads softly over and sits down beside her. She flinches away.

"Come to have another go? Go away. You were perfectly clear. Go and find a better cop to follow." Definitely on the verge of crying.

"I came to say sorry." Because he _will_ be a better man than he's just demonstrated. Even if she behaves like that.

"Really." She doesn't believe him. "Well, you've said it. You can go home knowing you've salved your conscience. Goodbye."

_Goodbye_ doesn't sound much like _see you tomorrow_ to him. It sounds a lot like _I never want to see you again._ He wraps an arm round her shoulder, and when she stiffens and tries to shake him off grips tighter. Her evident desire to make him leave cuts at him.

"I'm sorry, Beckett. You hit a sore spot so I hit back." She doesn't react. He has to go further. "I wasn't always rich and successful. I… we… didn't have anything when I was younger. Nothing. So when you imply I don't know what hard work is… I do." He leaves it there. No point in going further, dragging up the memories of another boarding house in another town, another school, another hand-to-mouth week, another set of temporary friends.

There's a small relaxation under his hand. " 'M sorry, too, Castle. I shouldn't've… I'm sorry. Just… this case. Mitchell." He hums encouragingly, hoping she'll continue. "I don't need someone to help. I can do it." And suddenly it becomes clear. Mitchell had accused her of not being competent on her own.

"Who's doubting you? What does it matter if some pond scum takes a pot-shot? Who's going to believe him?"

"You don't understand. This is my life. My reputation's all I've got. If people" – he hears _other cops_ - "start thinking I can't do it without a _civilian_ to help…I can't have that." She trails off, stiffens up again. He can hear her shallow breathing in the dark. He tightens his arm round her, pulls her into him, trying to give comfort.

"Has anyone actually said that? Or even implied it?" There's a tiny headshake, barely tangible. "Let's cross that bridge if we come to it, then." She sighs wearily, softer against him than a moment ago. "C'mon. It's late. Start again in the morning." He stands up and pulls her after him, thinks _the hell with it_ and tugs her right into his arms, kisses the top of her head gently. "Kiss and make up, Beckett."

There's a very slightly soggy snigger. "That line work for you, Castle?" He hears the snark with considerable relief. Seems they're mended, for now.

"Yes," he says with theatrical offence, and lifts her chin. "It does." And before she can object further he kisses her slowly and with considerable attention to detail. "There. All friends again."

He drops her off at her block, and tells the cabbie to wait till he sees her go in. He's certain she'll object to that, and sure enough there's a text within a minute of her apartment light going on. _I have a gun. See you later._ He sends back _Till tomorrow_ because he can't resist, even though it technically already is tomorrow, and falls into his own bed exhausted by the overload of temper and adrenaline. But they're friends again. Or something like that.

Beckett curls down into her own bed feeling less angry than she has done all day. She's still thoroughly sorry about what she said, but she's bitten the bullet and apologised – and so did Castle – and it seems that it's all okay. All better. She realises that she didn't like being at odds with him. Really didn't like it. She drifts into sleep and doesn't dream at all.

The next day they bring Joanne back in to look at a sketch that Mitchell had produced with the sketch artist. She's their last hope. No-one else has recognised it, and Joanne is no exception. Another bust. Until she says, almost as an aside, that her mom only wore jewellery to special events. And that's it. All the victims were rich, the types of people who go to big fundraisers, support charities, do the circuit. So they start cross-checking. And checking, and checking. How can there be so many different charities to be expensively supported? Finally, one ties up to all known victims. Beckett takes Castle off to pursue the Metropolitan American Dance Theatre.

It seems he knows the organiser. Or she knows him, more like, at least by repute. Which would be quite amusing, if she didn't then spoil it by outright asking if they're together.

"No," raps Beckett, without even thinking about it. Castle doesn't exactly play along, but at least _not yet_ is better than a _Yes_ would have been. They're not together. They're not… well, they're just not. Whatever not is. She points the moral rather harder.

"Never, in fact."

Castle doesn't like that. He thought they were… something. Whatever something might be. But when the organiser won't provide a donor list, citing, essentially, commercial confidentiality – or charitable confidentiality, which Castle would have thought was a contradiction in terms, because he'd always believed that the whole point of these fundraisers was for people to show off how much they gave to the relevant charity, he has an idea. He claims that he has a meeting at Black Pawn and slips off.

Clearly Castle believes in long meetings (she supposes, business meetings do not figure in Beckett's list of things to think about, and nor does Black Pawn). Although how he manages that when he has the attention span of a mayfly with ADHD she doesn't know. She's still thinking about how to get the donor list, but since persuasion hasn't worked, the only option is a court order. She starts typing up the form, shushing Ryan as she concentrates. He really should know not to disturb her. The forms are stupidly difficult to fill in, not because the contents are difficult – she thinks she knows her name, badge number and precinct by now – but because of the tech. _So_ last century. There's no way to correct mistakes once you've tabbed on through.

She's just about done, bristling with irritation at her screen and the damn form, when Castle bounces back in and tells her – as if she wouldn't know this – that half the judges in New York are on the public donor list. She's surprised that it's so few. The rest are probably on the private list that she's trying to get. So probably she won't get it, but she still has to _try_. Why can't he just see that and stop being so annoyingly happy? She snaps at him. He backs off a little, looking surprised.

"Whoa! Hey, you seem a little stressed." No, she's a _lot_ stressed. And he's not helping. He grins. It's not welcomed. Her temper edges another degree towards boiling. "Hey," he says again. What is this, a hoe-down? And could he stop grinning like a cowboy? This is not the local barn dance. "You know what you need?" She raises a nasty eyebrow. "A night out on the town." Huh?

"You what now?" What the hell? A night out on the town? No. No, no, no. She is not being seen on Castle's arm in public. No way. No how. He'll claim it's a date again. They are not dating. Not not not. Not. Esposito and Ryan are looking at him open-mouthed. They'll be even more open-mouthed when she starts howling with frustration that Castle seems to think the precinct is a place to try to pick up dates. And why is he waving two shiny gold tickets around? As far as she knows Willy Wonka only exists in fiction. Though right now she needs chocolate. Lots and lots and lots of chocolate. Washed down with lots and lots and lots of coffee cut with even more lots of vodka.

She is completely wrong-footed when he discloses that these are two tickets to the next Metropolitan American Dance Theatre fundraiser. They'll all be there wearing their jewellery, of course. Oh. Well. That's quite a good plan, really. Really good, in fact. She feels a bit happier about that. She can deal with going out with him for the evening, as long as it's work. Definitely not a date. They've never been on a date. She's not starting now. Life is looking up, until he reveals the next bit to her.

"Oh, it's a black tie event. That's not a problem, is it?" Oh _fuck_. Tiaras at ten paces. Oh _fuck._

"No," she lies. And knows he knows she does.

Ten minutes later Castle is buzzing round her, as annoying as a wasp and twice as noisy. "It's lunchtime, Beckett. Come on, we're going to get everyone lunch. I've got the orders here." She grumps. "You need to boost your blood sugar. You're cranky again. It's my duty to my friends to ensure your blood sugar is high enough that you're happy." He's not going to let up till she moves, is he? Aargh. She stands up, not happy at all. And that's nothing to do with her low blood sugar.

She's even less happy when they get partway down the street.

"So, Beckett." His eyes are evil. "You need a dress for the fundraiser. That black affair" – he looks momentarily distracted – "just won't do. Much as I like it." She knows where this is going. Absolutely _not_. She tries to forestall him.

"You don't know my size. And you're not buying me a dress."

"I know you don't have a black tie dress for this affair. I could tell from your face." He's looking smug. "And you only need it because it's part of the job, so you can think of it as a costume. Vice cops don't pay for their costumes, do they?" And now she can see him imagining her in some of those get-ups, and the heat in his eyes could start fires. "So I thought I'd get you a suitable costume." She opens her mouth to protest. He talks right over her.

"Anyway, I do know your size." His voice drops into the bad-boy purr, a full register lower than normal and vibrating through her nerves, that hasn't failed to leave her soaked and ready once since she'd met him.

"I know the size of your lips when I kiss them, when you open under my lips for me to take your mouth with my tongue. I know the length of your neck when I nip it just behind your ear and make you wriggle and gasp. I know the size of your breasts in my hands when I stroke you and the exact way your nipples peak against the silk of those _touch-me_ bras you wear. I know the span of your waist when I put my fingers round you and hold you in. I know your height when I pull you against me and kiss you, when you're held in tight and you can feel everything I'm going to do to you and for you and with you later. I know the width of your hips when I have to pin them to the sheets because you won't stay still for my mouth and tongue and teeth on you. I know the length of your legs when they're wrapped around me. I know every contour of your body, every inch of your skin. I know your size when you're under me and I'm inside you and you're so close you don't know where you end and I begin."

He's watching sheer will holding her up. He's quite deliberately seducing her, even though it's the middle of the day and they are supposed to be getting lunch for everyone, determined that she'll give in to this. Not that it will matter, because he's seen a dress that he knows will look absolutely fabulous on her and he's going out to buy it later on. And some matching underwear, and he'll insist she wears it for him and then at the end of the night he'll remove it all, slowly.

"You are not getting me a dress. I have plenty dresses."

And she does. It's just that she hasn't bought an evening dress for five years, and she's never been to a fundraiser in her life. Still, if he doesn't like her dresses that's his problem. She's a cop, not some fashion plate with a multi-million dollar trust fund or a sugar daddy and a clothing allowance the size of JP Morgan's balance sheet. She won't be beholden, nor will she be made to feel as if she's in some way inferior, needing to be improved, Pygmalion-style. And she is _not _listening to his wicked, wicked words. He can't possibly know her size. And she's not going to give him another chance to find out.

She goes home early and calls Lanie to help her get ready.

Her dresses are not suitable. Every dress she looks at has a flaw. It's got to be at least cocktail, preferably full length. The pink affair gets Lanie's thumbs down instantly. Too short. And Castle's seen it. One's too shiny, one's too Showgirls, one she should have given to the thrift shop years ago. The black one's boring, the multicoloured one doesn't suit (why'd she ever buy it? What had she been _on_ that day? Crack cocaine?). They're all wrong. Lanie disapproves of all of them, too. How can Beckett not have a suitable dress? And she's got less than an hour and hasn't done her hair or her make-up and hasn't got a dress and almost all her jewellery is paste and all the other women will be wearing Oscar de la Renta or Dior or Balenciaga or some other extortionately priced designer effort and dripping with genuine diamonds and _why_ did she agree to this anyway? This is emphatically not her scene. She's going to be utterly humiliated. It really is Pygmalion transplanted to Manhattan, and she's the pre-makeover Eliza Doolittle. She might as well use a broad Bronx accent and be totally in character.

Then the door sounds. Fabulous. Just utterly fabulous. At least Lanie can answer it. Beckett has strongly rooted objections to answering the front door in a towel. It tends to give the wrong impression, and correction often offends. Carrying a gun tends to correct the mistaken offence, though.

Lanie returns carrying a very large box and a very small note on top. Beckett takes one look at the note – _Bibbity, bobbity, boo_!? That patronising, condescending, _bastard_! He's sent a dress. She is not having this. That's even more humiliating than not having one herself. She is not wearing – oh. Oh, oh, _oooohhh_. Oh yes she is. She's never seen a dress like it. Lanie tactfully vacates her bedroom to allow Beckett to locate appropriate underwear, but when she lays the dress out on the bed so she can stare at it lovingly for a while she finds a smaller, tissue-wrapped package underneath it. When she undoes that there is a hand-scrawled note on a torn-out sheet from a travelling notepad folded up and tucked in. _Wear these. _Scarlet silk, a little lace: scorching hot yet tasteful. Hold ups. She shouldn't give him the satisfaction. She's got plenty of more than perfectly acceptable underwear of her own. And yet… ohhh, the dress. Why not? The thought of doing as he's asking trickles heat through her. She does her hair, smooth curls, very different from her daily norm; her make-up a little more glamorous.

She dresses slowly, from the skin out, and putting on the clothes he's bought her; the realisation that they fit perfectly, that he had indeed known her so well that he could choose the size with absolute accuracy, sends shivers down her spine, liquid sensation flowing downward. She realises why there's no bra when she looks at the back of the dress. He's keen on putting his hand on the small of her back, whenever he thinks he can get away with it. She shivers, again, thinking of his touch on bare skin.

It's certainly a better costume than she'd ever gotten to wear in Vice. For a start, it has a skirt, not an oversize belt. Though the lacing reminds her irresistibly of some of the more fetishistic tops. She still has some of them. They haven't left the back of her closet since she joined Homicide. Maybe it's time they did.

Lanie's dropped jaw is testament to the incredible dress. (Beckett doesn't mention the underwear. Lanie doesn't need to know that. Lanie's far too nosy about Beckett and Castle without including that sort of information. After all, only lovers buy you lingerie, and she doesn't want to explain any of that particular interaction to anyone. Especially as she can't explain it to herself.)

He's sent a car for her. That's something she could get used to. It smoothly deposits her at Castle's block, where the doorman's already been briefed and she's suavely sent up with a look of admiration. She suspects that if she didn't have a wrap on he'd have been drooling. She knows how she looks. She saw it in the chauffeur's eyes, too. Her walk had shifted into a prowl as soon as she put her heels on.

She's wrong-footed again by Castle's and his family's enthusiasm and his mother's (you must call me Martha, darling, despite the fact that she's still Detective Beckett. Or, it seems, darling. Castle better not try that one.) disappearing to find a necklace that will simply be too, too utterly perfect. Beckett thinks it's a gorgeous example of top-notch costume jewellery, and accepts with grace. Tonight, though, is the first time in ten years that she's worn a different necklace. She can't wear the usual one without provoking questions, and with this one on she feels uncomfortably exposed. It should have been her own mother lending her jewellery, admiring her dress, telling her to have a good time. It never will be, though. Never, ever.

She clamps down on the emotion. It's not fair. Castle's mother is only trying to be kind. She's not responsible for Beckett's tragedies. She takes a look at Castle, all dressed up. Well. He cleans up nice, too. Mmmm. But she can't see why he should be so upset that she's told his mother where the function is.

* * *

_As always, thank you to all reviewers. I love knowing what you think._

_To Brutus, who took time to review but who I can't answer personally: it may look like Castle being spineless, though note that he did walk away, rather than go and find Beckett. However, for reasons which will not be revealed for some time, it's not lack of spine. Similarly, Beckett's behaviour will be explained, in due course._

_Chapter titles come from songs I think have something appropriate to say to the chapter. Anyone wanting to know what a particular song was (some are rather obscure) - PM. Or review, of course._


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31: C'mon babe, we're gonna paint the town**

He'd known it would fit perfectly. He just hadn't understood how perfectly stunning perfect would be. He abruptly wishes that he'd overridden his family and his own statement and collected her, from hers. He can't say hello the way he wants to with his mother and daughter as an interested audience. Still, there will be some time for _conversation_ in the limo. Only conversation. Other forms of interaction will wait till the end of the evening – when they're alone.

He's a little surprised that his mother's lent Beckett her necklace, which he'd certainly not – never would have – asked her to do, but it looks spectacular with the dress. He just hopes that it doesn't mark Beckett out as bait. She certainly doesn't look like a cop tonight. She must know it's real – surely?

He introduces Beckett at the party and realises that he still - officially, because she hasn't told him - doesn't know her first name. That's embarrassing, but he covers it up and makes a joke of it to the Mayor, about how cops are so very intent at work that they don't even use first names – like an old-fashioned English boarding school, he tells Bob, and grins. Underneath, he makes a mental memo to _persuade_ it out of her.

Beckett is very unimpressed to find that Castle's been gossiping about her at his poker games. She does not like that. Oh, how she does not like that. When the Mayor (she can't possibly call him Bob) wanders off to shake some hands that might deposit dollars in his next campaign fund Castle offers her a drink. She would absolutely love to get utterly, totally wasted and not remember anything about this tomorrow. Unfortunately, not only is she on duty, but there are photographers and press everywhere. She declines anything stronger than water, and breathes an invisible sigh of relief when Castle goes up to the bar. Even better, he's been buttonholed by a talkative woman who's keeping him out the way. Beckett looks around carefully to see if she can spot anyone who might be in on the thefts/murders. Everyone looks very well groomed and expensive: there's nobody who's obviously out of place.

She's planning a short reconnaissance via the restroom to reset her holster, which is slipping a little, (it always needs a little tightening after an hour or so) when she is approached by a pretty woman who's clearly been everybody's best friend, wanted or not, since pre-K. Beckett's not sure whether to be pleased or insulted that she obviously thinks that Beckett belongs in this company. Indecision over that issue turns to outright nausea when the woman informs her, in effect, that she's won the star prize. Being Castle, who's apparently the bored rich woman's partner of choice. Now she really needs to find the restroom. She may just throw up if this carries on. Sure, he's spectacular in bed, but she's not looking for anything more, and she has as much interest in his money and reputation as she does in breeding goldfish. It explains his smugness, though. She's amazed his head fits through the door, with all this nonsensical behaviour inflating it. She makes a polite answer, using up almost all of her store of good manners in the process, and manages not to refer to Castle in any terms which might betray her general irritation or her knowledge of his other attributes. Though she might call him Ishmael, tomorrow. She certainly won't be referring to him by the other names.

She's checking in with Ryan and Esposito when Castle tugs her inelegantly (that's unusual, he doesn't normally lack for smoothness) on to the dance floor. Inelegance is replaced almost immediately by considerable sophistication and not a small degree of terpsichorean talent. Beckett, being well-educated and widely read, is perfectly well aware of the sociological implications of dancing and its relationship to sex. Intellectually, that is. She hasn't previously had occasion to consider what that might mean when she's in a hot and heavy affair with the man by whom she is currently being pulled on to the dance floor, and who's provided every stitch she's presently wearing. There is an immediately obvious and substantial difference in the activity. Castle's large hand, spread over the skin of her back through the laces of this astonishing, alluring dress, doing nothing illicit at all, not even a fingertip beyond decent, is sending liquid heat flowing through her core, pooling between her legs; and she will never read a description of a waltz in a sloppy Regency romance in the same way ever again.

Pressed against him, concealing his hard arousal from the room, she's caught up in the memory of his body against her, naked, hot, forceful; leading her not on to a dance floor but down into the dark waters of seductive domination. She widens her stance an unnoticeable amount and he's right where she needs him. Dancing, it seems, really is sex with all your clothes on. He'd bought these clothes, every thread and bead she's wearing, and she has no idea why she agreed to wear any of it for him, but the possessive insistence implied in the two word note was just so hot. She shakes her head to clear it. Ten seconds of fantasising is ten too many when she's working. This is about taking down a killer, not getting it on with your boyfriend… What? No. No no no. Not her boyfriend. No way. _Get your mind back on the job, Kate. That's why you don't have boyfriends. They're a distraction. The dead deserve your diligence. Focus._

She pulls slightly away from Castle, just in time to be dipped. At first it takes all her focus not simply to melt into the movement, rely on his muscle to bring her back. But she's working, and that takes priority over everything. Then she realises that she's still bent backwards, the position held for far too long.

"Castle! A little help?" Her tone is sharp. Castle's completely lost his concentration. What's going on? And then he pulls her up, lets her go and goes dashing off the dance floor, leaving her as if he's ditched her in full view of New York's society glitterati. Gee, thanks, Castle. Way to go. Just as well she's unrecognisable like this. Except – he's having a low-voiced but exceedingly heated discussion with an older man and the organiser, and he doesn't look like the happy-go-lucky man he usually appears to be when he's following her around. In fact, he looks very like that much more intimidating man who can out-spar her. Hmm. Something's up here. She goes over to join the party just as everyone dissolves into confusion and crossed wires when Castle accuses the others of committing the murders.

The older man suddenly nods at the stage, by way of short explanation of why he's there. Payback? Payback for what? It's a fundraiser, not a competition. Oh Lord, thinks Beckett, here we go with the charity auction; everybody measuring up each other by their wallets. She supposes, if this is what the man means, it makes a change from the usual way that men measure their status: by size. She wonders what piece of over-priced rubbish will be on the block tonight. She's sure it won't be anything she's interested in. Her mind starts drifting over the case details.

She comes slamming back to reality when Castle's mother hits the stage. Whatever the tat that's being sold off, Castle's mother is sufficiently theatrical (even on very brief acquaintance Beckett couldn't have missed that: she redefines Grande Dame in spades) that this might at least be mildly entertaining.

It's only a signed copy of Storm Fall. Well, that's a bit of a disappointment. Couldn't it at least have been a first edition of a classic – oh. Oh, oh, oh _yes!_ Oh, _wonderful_. The auction prize is Castle. A date, with Castle. She can't hide her smirk. And the poor little boy's _embarrassed_ by it. This is better than Shark Week. It's better than winning the lottery. It's just so perfect. And then a man bids high on him and she can almost feel Castle trying to hide his large frame behind her.

He'll give her anything she wants, if Beckett will only bid on him and protect him from this disaster. He is going to kill Powell, and his mother, and the organiser. He knows a man in the Mob. He's being sold off like a Roman slave. He thinks, appalled, that if this hadn't been such a high society event his mother would probably have arranged for him to be divested of everything but his boxers and probably oiled and waxed to boot. He'd thought she'd been _unhappy_ with Powell. Time's clearly healed that wound.

Beckett refuses, bluntly. She's _enjoying_ his discomfiture. Scrap that. His outright horror. He doesn't want to go out to dinner with any of these people. He only wants to go out to dinner with Beckett. He leans down.

"Aren't you upset that they're all bidding for dinner with me?" he whispers desperately.

"No." What? Why isn't she upset that he's being forced on a date with someone else? "I'm sure you'll have a very nice time."

"But… but… you and me…" She looks at him as if he's run mad.

"What? We're not dating." She grins very nastily. "I don't do threesomes, though. So don't even think about it." How can she make a joke about this? Surely she knows they're exclusive? She's _his_. She said so. More than once. That means that she should be upset at his mother's antics. But she's still talking, and not upset at all.

"Don't worry. It's just a date. It's not as if you have to follow through. You won't be rated on your performance." And that sounds perilously close to Beckett not caring at all that he's going out to dinner with someone else. At least she seems to realise that he won't be sleeping with anyone else. He doesn't cheat. He never cheats. A venomous worm of doubt wriggles into his head. What if Beckett doesn't think they're exclusive? But no. Before he came along she wasn't with anyone, and even now he is here she spends twenty hours a day at work. She has neither time nor inclination for anyone else. And it wouldn't fit who she is. She'd never cheat on anything, work or play: her integrity blazes. But he'll make sure she knows that he doesn't share. Later. Soon. Very soon.

His mother's worked it up to seven thousand dollars, and he supposes he should be happy that he's so desirable, but he's not. Two months ago, he would have been, he abruptly realises. Two months ago, he would have been preening under the spotlight and encouraging the bids, playing the big star and using his playboy reputation to dazzle the audience. It seems a little … pathetic… now, that he did that; now that he does something that matters. He looks around, wondering if he could disappear and plead an instant-onset stomach flu. He's fairly sure Beckett won't cover for him, though. She's enjoying his discomfort far, far too much. He'll deal with that, too, later. Hold on – what's that?

It turns out that they have their break. Someone's boyfriend, taking photos, looking like he's just one of the hordes of paparazzi, actually photographing all the jewels. They take him in, and while he's being processed Beckett takes the opportunity to change (she pets the dress, though. She's got plans for that dress.) and return herself to normal. Everyone looks thoroughly disappointed. Castle has a look in his eye that tells her that he'd had plans for the dress, too. Or, more likely, removing the dress. Too bad, Castle. The case always comes first. Her work is her life. Everything else is transient.

Interrogation breaks the boyfriend in short order: he's no match for Beckett's focused edge of violence, her driving need to solve the case, to prove herself. She proves herself with every day, every clue, every case, every conviction, and never, ever lets up. It's terrifying, from the outside. Castle's reminded of Esposito's words: _she's heading for burnout_. He can see it coming; should have seen it last night in the gym. But there's no time to think that through now: no time for anything except going to get the bad guy.

And they do. Beckett's standing over the perpetrator (that _he'd_ put on the floor) in the very early morning light with her Glock on him looking like every gun nut's wet dream (and his) and daring the dirtbag to move. Wow. All his desires for the way in which the previous night should have ended leap back up.

Perp caught, cuffed and hauled off; and that is very thankfully that. The boys have disappeared with the perpetrator (or any one of a hundred synonyms she might have used) to take him back to the precinct for processing. Time to go home, dissipate the adrenaline rush. Except that it seems Castle has a different view of the end of this case, and of how to dissipate adrenaline. He's still in the remnants of his tux, leaning on the alleyway wall next to the cruiser. A bruise is beginning to form under his eye. It's surprisingly sexy. And he's been useful. Again.

"I'm coming back with you. Bring the dress, too. I want you in it." It's not a request. None of it is a request.

"It's already in the trunk. Wouldn't have left this dress in the precinct anyway. Who knows what Esposito might do with temptation right in front of him?" Castle growls deep in his chest.

"I'm going to come to your apartment, where you can put that dress back on and then we can celebrate finishing the case properly, seeing as we got side-tracked by the bad guys yesterday." The growl drops to a deep baritone murmur. "I liked knowing that you're wearing clothes I've bought for you. That I'd dressed you from the skin out, even if I wasn't there. Now I want to undress you, right back down to your skin, like I should have been able to last night. Every step we took, every note we danced to, you were driving me wild, and now we're going to finish what you started on the dance floor. I'm going to take you, Beckett, just like you wanted me to. I'm going to make you mine all over again, and you'll accept that you're mine, all over again." His hand is high on her leg, fingers circling lightly; soft intimation of dark intent. "Won't you?" He leans closer and nips gently at her ear, runs his tongue below it to the nerve that makes her shiver. "Cold, Beckett?" His other arm drops around her shoulder, hand resting just above indiscretion. If she were still wearing the dress, she thinks, the tips of his fingers would be only a fraction above the cups of the bodice. An inch of movement, and they'd be below it. She's not wearing a bra. The dress couldn't take one and it's designed not to need one, and she hasn't been home.

"If we'd been alone," Castle breathes into her ear, "I'd have held you tighter, closer. I'd have kissed you, slipped my hand lower, dipped a finger below those laces and stroked over the dimple in your back, made you press against me harder. I'd have bent you backwards over my arm just like earlier, but then I'd have kissed downward, traced your neckline with my tongue, made you gasp and moan. You'd be completely dependent on me to hold you right there." She doesn't think he's necessarily talking about the dip. She's already hopelessly wet, caught in the web of his words. "And then I'd straighten you up, deal with those laces at the back" – he nips at her ear again – "watch the dress pool on the floor at your feet…" He stops. It's too much. He pulls her against him and kisses her with starved desperation. "Take us home, Beckett. Now."

She's too wound up by his words – those wicked, wanton words in deep, dusky tones, swirling around her to tie her in – to object or even notice his slip. It's just as well it's early, and there's little traffic to delay her. He doesn't speak another word until they're inside her door. He doesn't need to. The way he's looking at her tells her everything about what he wants to do.

"Go and put the dress back on, Beckett." It's quite clearly a command. She quirks an eyebrow. "Please." That's not a request, either. Not in that tone. A tiny tremor trickles through her vertebrae. She lays the dress over her arm and shuts her bedroom door behind her.

* * *

Castle waits for rather longer than he had expected, or wanted, before the door to her room opens again. When it does, it's clear why. She looks exactly as she had when they'd begun the evening: film-star groomed and glossy; impossibly perfect. It could be some old movie set: Bogart and Bacall across a crowded room, eyes locked, no-one else in their world. He extends a hand, suavely.

"Shall we dance, Detective Beckett?" She doesn't walk to him, she flows, and puts her elegant hand into his.

"My pleasure, Mr Castle," and her other hand comes up on to his shoulder and his clasps her waist so that his fingers splay out over the skin of her back, soft under those amazingly provocative laces, and whoever invented the waltz knew _exactly_ what they were doing. He twirls her round and with every step he leads her closer to the bedroom, pulls her closer into his body, strokes his fingers a little lower, just as he'd promised earlier, and then he dips her over his arm and does exactly as he'd described, holding her balanced easily, until she does, indeed, moan. When they straighten up he spins her into the bedroom, and while the spin may be smooth his breathing is jagged and his eyes are midnight dark. It takes him every ounce of control he's ever possessed to undo cleanly the knot that finishes the lacing over Beckett's back. (If he rips the dress he'll never be able to see her in it again.) The dress slithers down over her slim figure and pools like the blood she so often stands by around her scarlet high heels. She stands by her neat bed like a model, perfectly poised and confident, only the shallow, rapid rise and fall of her chest betraying her.

He kneels before her, supplicant at her altar, and for all his dominance and control he's helpless in the face of this goddess. He hasn't knelt before a woman in twenty years, but he simply cannot do otherwise here and now. It takes him a moment to steady his hands, to place the lightest of kisses at the tops of her stockings, to sit back on his heels and watch her catch her halting breath as he slowly rolls each shimmer of silk downwards, unstraps the slim diamante buckles around her ankles, steadies her with one hand to remove each stocking and shoe together. He's still as fully dressed as the moment he walked through the door. The effect of seeing her dressed as he'd requested, envisaged; dressed for him and by him and dressed to kill; has left him speechless. There are no words. All there is – is worship.

And so he does, holding her till her knees give and she's pushed back on the bed, adoring her with his pliant mouth and flickering tongue and flexible lips and careful teeth and then with hard, penetrating fingers, takes her past the edge of her control before she knows it, and while she's still recovering strips himself and what's left of a pair of scarlet silk panties from her so that he can rise over her and pin her merely with his mass and take her hard and fast and rough until he shudders and groans and she screams and they fall over the cliff together.

Beckett recovers first. She lies back, slightly separated from Castle, and tries to recover a few working neurons from the sea of sex in which they're currently dissolving. She's confused, and she doesn't like the feeling one bit. Mainly, she's confused by how she's reacting. Not the sex. She understands _that_ reaction perfectly. He pushes all the right buttons (and she clearly pushes his) and as long as this stays in bed everything is just _fine_. Very fine. She's also not confused by her reactions to his liking for dominance in matters related to sex. She's always liked that. So far, so good. What does confuse her, though, is her occasional flashes of telling him things about herself, when she doesn't want to discuss her past with anyone, and the way in which his oversized frame is oddly comforting, when she doesn't need comfort at all. (She pushes away the memory of two nights ago. She'd have been fine if he hadn't come after her, too. She would.) She needs to lock her history away. It's not relevant. She isn't a victim any more. She doesn't need taken care of. She's remade her life, and it works for her.

She doesn't think that the only part of her life that works _is_ her work.

So when Castle regards her with sleepy, sensual blue eyes and reaches for her again she doesn't give him a chance to pull her into that possessive, protective embrace; but slithers down his body and shows him exactly how she can reduce him to a pulsating mass of groaning need, until he shows her exactly how good he can make her body feel. And when he reluctantly leaves, telling her he'll be in touch later, she curls down among the sheets and pillows and falls asleep surrounded by the scent of him, and doesn't ask why that makes her so comfortable. Again.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. I appreciate all of your comments: please keep them coming. _

_To the guest who wanted Beckett to buy Castle, sorry, not in this fic. It's an interesting idea, though..._


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32: Only logical**

By the time Castle's explained the reason why he's developing a spectacular black eye to his semi-doting family (Alexis is doting, and admiring. His mother is not.) and then managed a much-needed shower, shave and several hours of sleep, it's well past lunchtime on Saturday. Alexis has left him a neat note clipped to his laptop, telling him that she's gone to meet Paige and will be back late this evening (_by curfew, Dad)_. Curfew. Yeah. That would be the one she sets herself. One day he'll have a real teen… and he'll hate it. He ought to meet this Owen boy Alexis keeps mentioning. His own history as a teen does not incline him to give Owen the benefit of any doubt at all.

His mother is looking over a script in his living room. When he emerges, feeling better except around the eye socket, she fixes him with a penetrating half-glare.

"Good afternoon, kiddo. I take it you had an interesting evening?"

"It was all going great, till you auctioned me off like beef on the hoof and the bad guy hit me."

"Ah, relax. You'll have a wonderful time. You'll like her. Whoever it was. She obviously likes you, darling." Castle humphs, sulkily. "Seven thousand dollars' worth of liking. It's worth a smile and some social conversation. You might even get lucky." He splutters into his coffee. Fortunately his mother takes it as disgust at the suggestion and not that he already did. With Beckett. Not some random rich woman looking for a good time. "The bruise will heal. If not, I'll put some concealer on it for you." He growls, not impressed. His mother takes no notice at all.

"And it's not as if you're going about with anyone at the moment. However hard you're trying with that lovely Detective Beckett." Martha cocks her head in the manner of an interested tropical bird, which precisely matches her brightly multi-coloured dress. Castle splutters again. "She looked absolutely beautiful last night, didn't she? I'm so glad I lent her my necklace. It suited her dress so well. She does know how to dress, doesn't she? She couldn't have picked a better gown if she'd been dressed by Dior." She pauses for effect. "Far too good for you, kiddo."

Castle preserves perfect equanimity, especially on the matter of the source of Beckett's dress. (He'd very carefully instructed the saleswoman to remove the label. He strongly doubts – however beautiful it was – that Beckett would have put it on if she'd known the provenance. Or the price.)

"She did look very nice, Mother. However, I don't think she'd appreciate your commentary. This is not _Fiddler on the Roof_." He doesn't comment on her last sentence, and fortunately his mother doesn't appear to notice. It's Martha's turn to humph.

"I would never interfere in your life. After all, I didn't interfere when you married that conniving redhead, did I?"

"No, Mother. You didn't. I'll invite Beckett round about brunch tomorrow to return your necklace. She worked through the night on this one, so I'm sure you'll not mind if it's not back today. Now, can we change the subject from your inordinate interest in forcing me out on a date with a woman I've never met before and who clearly has to pay for it?"

"Of course, darling."

"I really wanted to discuss your last Bergdorf's bill…"

"Oh, darling, I'd love to, but look at the time! I have to go. Got a hot date." And she's gone. Castle smiles to himself at the effect of that tactic and makes himself a refreshing coffee. He's tap-danced past his mother's interrogation with complete success.

He wouldn't be half as happy if he could see Martha's expression as soon as she's out of his sight. She'd seen the way her son had looked at Detective Beckett, and she's far from stupid. She's put two and two together and got rather more than four, too. It's fairly clear what's – who's – bitten Richard's butt. Metaphorically. She smiles very sardonically to herself. So that's why he's developed this sudden interest in police work. Almost a passion, really. So to speak. Though she has to admit that he has been writing very consistently. What she _hasn't_ noticed was any clue as to Detective Beckett's thoughts. A very unreadable face, Detective Beckett's. Hmm. What had Richard said? Oh yes, that Detective Beckett would be returning her necklace tomorrow. She smiles more widely as she contemplates a nice chat between girls. After all, it's a mother's positive duty to size up her son's potential girlfriends. Maybe Alexis should be there too. Mm, yes. A nice chat. She's sure she'll be able to shoo Richard off for an hour or two.

Back at the loft, Castle's relief at dodging his mother's questions has manifested itself in a rapid text to Beckett to suggest that ten-thirty would be a good time to drop by if she wants to return his mother's necklace – with a P.S. of _What's your name? How can I refer to you if I don't know your name? _- a call to Clark Murray to see when he'll have time to look at the Johanna Beckett file, and a healthy dose of publishable Nikki. He doesn't need to write private Nikki any more. He's got the real thing, and it's far, far better. He even gets a reply to his text. Though it's a glass half-empty variety of reply.

_See you 10.30. You can refer to me as Detective Beckett. _

Beckett had woken up some time earlier, showered, and set off for a long, hard run to ease out her muscles and, she hopes, to clear her mind. She needs to get a grip on herself. She can feel her control of her life slipping through her fingers. She'd intended... well, that's the first problem. She hadn't intended. She had, in fact, intended _not_ to get into it with Castle. And then she'd intended it to be a one-night stand.

And suddenly it's been several times, and okay it's only in bed and it is just a game but she's not played the _I'm yours_ game with anyone in the last few years and she doesn't understand why she's doing it now. In fact, she'd stopped playing it in a hell of a hurry when someone had thought it meant more than just a bedtime game and started trying to tell her what to do and who to see. No. No way. She'd trusted them, up till that point, until they'd destroyed her trust. She'd kicked him to the kerb in seconds flat and any time since (not that that's been often, and never serious) anyone who might even have thought about trying it has been out the door. And her ability to trust life in general had been destroyed in an alley. So why's she playing it with Castle? She shoves that aside. It's too difficult to answer. (And she might not like the answer.)

And now she's telling him bits of her past, when she's off guard. But she's never been off guard before and she doesn't understand why that's happening now, either. And he keeps producing this protective attitude and having him around is stupidly comforting. Which she really does not understand, at all. But he said he didn't want to take care of her. And she doesn't want him to. She can take care of herself. She has to be able to do it on her own. There's no point relying on someone else to help you through your life. Around and around, stride after stride, the even rhythm of her breathing and her heartbeat and her pace beats in dissonant counterpoint to the chaos of her mind.

Thinking is _not helping_.

She should simply go back to the way she was before Castle walked into her tidy life. With the addition of spectacular, recreational sex, until it stops. If she does that, if she stops _getting involved_, backs away, doesn't rely on him for anything, everything will be okay. It's the rational way to proceed. Logical. Sensible. So why does thinking like that make her feel as if she's been punched in the chest? Or... maybe she can just stick here. Just as they are now. Okay, so she's said a few things that she wishes she hadn't revealed, but nothing serious, really. Kiev was a long time ago and is simply a _what-I-did-on-my-summer-vacation_ story, and she's said nothing about her mother that the team doesn't know. He doesn't need to know what Espo or Montgomery know. He doesn't want to, either. And she'd talked a bit about corrupt and lazy cops, but that was just background for his book. (she winces, thinking of the name) Nothing personal. So actually, she hasn't really said anything much at all, about anything. Nothing that might give anyone (Castle) the impression that she needs help, or support, or comfort. Nothing that would make anyone interested in her history. So that's okay. Yes. That's a better answer. She can keep it to this level. Keep him. This far and no further.

But her chest still hurts. And she's very carefully not thinking about the ...episode... in the gym, or after.

When she gets home, tired in mind and body and not completely reassured by her own decisions, despite their obvious good sense, she remembers that she has to return Castle's mother's necklace. Realisation coincides with reading Castle's text. It's a good opportunity to draw a line. He doesn't need to know her name. She's quite happy to be Beckett. It preserves a certain distance; stops this getting complicated; means it isn't going to be a relationship. _Boundaries, Kate. That's what this needs._

She spends the rest of the day in the precinct, even though she's not on shift, frenetically working, hiding from herself and her unproductive thoughts in the paperwork and old cases.

* * *

When Castle wakes he remembers that Beckett's coming round at brunch and starts to plan a campaign to peel another layer of her story out of her.

His plans for the day go awry at approximately the moment he opens the door to usher Beckett inside. Both his daughter and his mother react with enormous enthusiasm, which he had not expected (mild liking, yes, overwhelming enthusiasm, no) and which he certainly does not welcome. They are entirely too delighted to see Beckett. In fact, they swarm around her like sharks around blood and within five seconds it's very clear that he is not required. He remains impervious to all his mother's hints to leave, because it's not at all clear that Beckett is happy about the family ambush. She's pulled the shutters down behind her eyes and her first action is to give his mother back her necklace with soft-voiced, formal thanks.

"Darling, it was just perfect. Nothing accessorises like real rubies, when you're wearing a dress like that." Uh-oh. Beckett's just gone poker stiff. She hadn't known. And she is very, very uncomfortable about it. And, it seems, everything else. She's reluctant (not obviously, but he knows her tells) to sit down, to stay; as if she has somewhere else that she should be. He suspects that she intends to go straight to the precinct as soon as she can get out of here.

His mother and daughter want to know absolutely everything about Beckett's view of the fundraiser. People, dresses, music, dancing – they get particularly excitable when she says that she danced with him – and of course his mother's auctioneer role. She answers all his family's questions without ever shifting out of a cool, amused, sociable tone, and if he didn't know her so well already he'd almost think she was enjoying the conversation.

Except she's not.

It's quite clear to him that she is not enjoying it in the slightest. She's declined food, and the coffee in front of her is untouched. Her shoulders are tight, and her back very straight. The hand that's not in view of his family is white-knuckled, and he strongly suspects her nails are digging into her palm. Not a jot of this tension is evident in her voice, or her face. He hasn't the slightest idea why she's so tense. His family are a little… well, enthusiastic is probably a good word for them, if a little understated, but they _like_ her, he realises. So they're trying very hard to show it, and to draw her into their ambit.

And Beckett doesn't like that at all. Which should be okay, because he doesn't want a deep, permanent, Sunday-lunch-with-all-the-family relationship, just a longer term affair. But it isn't okay. It's not okay at all that Beckett isn't comfortable with his family. He wants her to like them back, to be comfortable here. If they're all friends, it'll be another tie to bind her to him. But right now all the possibilities that any of that might happen are dissipating under the force of his family's collective personality.

Beckett is very deeply uncomfortable indeed. She had been unhappy about Castle's mother lending her a necklace, beautiful and appropriate as it was. She'd not been entirely convinced about coming here, but she'd had to return the necklace – even if it's only paste it's precious to his mother - and she'd at least expected that his family would be out the way. But it wasn't paste. It was probably a hundred thousand dollars' worth of real gemstones, lent as if it were paste. She can't deal with that. And she's undergoing a grilling of which Torquemada would have been proud, and all of it is conducted in tones which strongly suggest that she's being audited for the role of girlfriend. No. Not happening. Audits or girlfriend status.

It's profoundly embarrassing to be ever-so-unsubtly asked your intentions. She has none. Enjoy it while it lasts, deal with the ending when it comes, move on. None of which includes being best friends with your – your what? Boyfriend? Hardly. Lover? Only in the most restrictive imaginable sense of the word. Partner? As good a word as any. At least it's partly correct – your partner's, then, family. She's never met Esposito's family, or Ryan's, or even Lanie's, though she's heard snippets about each of them in passing. She doesn't want an emotional connection with them, because one day she might be knocking on their door to deliver bad news. It's hard enough to do that when you don't know the people whose lives you're destroying. She's sure Castle's family are wonderful company, full of life and interesting stories, but she doesn't want to get involved. She's not part of their world.

She doesn't need a replacement family. Her own will do just fine. She's come to terms with her dad's weakness when she needed him most, her mother's death. They worked through it, with time.

"Mother, I think you've interrogated Beckett for long enough." Castle can see the day disappearing rapidly down the drain, along with his patience and certainly Beckett's. If she isn't already running for the exit, it's not far off. "Why don't you leave her to have a peaceful cup of coffee." _With me. Not, however wonderful you and Alexis might normally be, with you as well. Your presence is not required._

"Oh, Detective Beckett, I'm sorry. We just wanted to know what you thought of the evening. Richard would never be able to tell us anything sensible." Martha smirks. "Especially once he was auctioned off. Tell me, Detective Beckett, how much did he offer you to bid on him?"

"Not enough," Beckett responds smartly, with an answering smirk and a thick layer of non-committal reserve underneath. Castle grimaces at both of them. He's been left with a particularly unpleasant and unwanted dinner date because Beckett wouldn't play nice and bid on him. And she laughed at him when he objected. Worse, she didn't even care that he was going to dinner with someone else. Worst of all, he can't get out of it, because it all has to support his charming, playboy, public persona and Paula will be furious if he welches. Not that he cares: he pays her, not vice versa; but he can do without the hassle. He'll need to be pleasant, and friendly, and not let a hint of boredom show. Whoever it is will expect flirting and fun, and he no longer wants to flirt and be fun with every pretty, or not-so-pretty, plastic woman who can afford to bid big at a charity auction. It may be a good cause, but it's a very shallow outcome.

It would be better, too, if Beckett wasn't giving a clear impression that no sum he might have provided would have been enough for her to bid. Putting his family off the scent they're only too interested in pursuing is one thing, and probably a very good plan. Implying that she couldn't care less that he's going out with other women is not. Time to switch gear.

"Beckett, would you like some fresh coffee?" Beckett looks unusually unsure, and there's a sharply unhappy flick of her eyes at his family. The tension in her shoulders has not lessened in any way at all. He thinks that she's one short minute from politely leaving, alone, and he still has no idea why she's so tightly strung. He's rapidly revising the way in which the remains of the morning might go. Beckett's overpowering tension needs dealt with, without letting her realise that he's easing her into letting him _take care_ of her again, at least for now. Now she's taken the first step down that attractive path, he thinks confidently, subsequent steps will be easier. She'll show him the next layer of her tough-skinned onion; and another part of her story will fall into place.

"Alexis, weren't you going to a study group?" He'd thought she was going to see that Owen boy, though she calls it a study group. Surely even his distressingly thick-skinned mother might take the hint, and leave too? He gives her a meaningful glare as Alexis looks at her watch and exits, squeaking and flustered that she'll be late, and for once his mother does what he wants.

"Bye, Detective Beckett. Richard. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Castle winces at the salacious tone and smile. Anything more likely to kill any fragment of sensual mood that might, astonishingly, have survived the previous hour than that comment is hard to imagine. However, she has left. Beckett's shoulders slump slightly. He'd describe it as relief, rather than anything more pleasant. Still. He moves up close behind her and crosses his arms over her, wrapping her in where she sits on the bar stool. Sharp discomfort is radiating from her as she sits stiffly within his grasp. He lets go, very quickly.

"Do you want more coffee?" Beckett seems to wake up and realise that she's not being cross-questioned any more. "We don't have to sit out here. We can go into my office, if you'd prefer." _Translation: we can have some privacy._

When there's no immediate answer, he concocts two fresh mugfuls of strong coffee, ushering Beckett through to the office and installing her in a plump, soft-cushioned chair not too far from his desk so that he can perch on its edge and watch her, hoping that she'll start to relax from this unwarranted tension.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. Very much appreciated._


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33: Not a public inquiry**

"They liked you." She's buried her nose in her coffee and is drinking it faster than a dehydrated camel at a Saharan oasis.

"That's nice. I'm glad. I liked them, too. It was very kind of your mother to lend me her necklace." It's very polite. It's exactly what a well-brought up woman would say, no matter the circumstances. He very clearly hears _I would never have accepted if I had known it was real._

"But they're a bit overwhelming, when you're not used to them," Castle says ruefully, trying to draw Beckett out of her reserve. "They tend to be a little enthusiastic when they want to get to know someone."

"That's a bit of an understatement. We could use your mother in Interrogation. Maybe she'd like to apply for a badge?" Ouch. Despite Beckett's pleasant smile and amused tone, that comment had _very_ sharp edges. Beckett has clearly seen right through his mother. Castle had been perfectly, painfully aware of what had been going on. He'd merely hoped that Beckett hadn't. _Thanks, Mother._ He changes tack. At least, he would, if Beckett hadn't forestalled him.

"Thanks for the coffee, Castle. Gotta go." She stands up. Well, that didn't take long. Even if he'd expected it since the moment his family had opened up the questioning.

"Already?"

"It's nearly lunchtime, Castle. Things to do, people to see, you know how it is." She's aiming for the study door.

"That's a shame. I was going to offer you lunch. I'm an exceptionally good cook." He smiles proudly. Beckett thinks that this is another good opportunity to set some boundaries. She really had not appreciated the inquisition she'd been put through, and if his family is thinking that they should be vetting her then both they and Castle have another think coming.

"Sorry, I can't stay. It's very sweet of you to offer, though. Thank you." She's fairly sure that she hears an unhappy growl as she turns rapidly to the door. Hmm. Definitely time for some boundaries. "I'll call you when the next body drops."

An..nd – she's gone. He didn't even get a chance to kiss her before she was the other side of the study door. Castle is left thoroughly irritated with his mother. If she'd just backed off, he's sure he'd have convinced Beckett to stay a little longer. She'd still looked tired, and a good lunch wouldn't have done any harm. But she's gone, and he knows nothing more about her, and he hasn't had an opportunity to take care of her, without her noticing, either. Oh, and he's effectively been given the brush off from the precinct till there's a new case. Three strikes, and he's out. It does _not_ improve his mood.

He sits down and tries to write. In reality, he's thinking. He's thinking just enough about Nikki to pretend he's working, and indeed every so often he taps out a few sentences. Mostly, however, he's thinking about why Beckett was so tense, and why she was so bluntly telling him not to show up till there's a body. He doesn't get anywhere at all. He really does not understand why, after every time they've enjoyed shatteringly good sex, she backs off, or runs away, or hides. She does it after she's inadvertently told him something about herself, too. It's very odd. Surely she should be getting closer by now? More than physically closer. Physically she's very close. But it's _not enough_.

His phone rings. It's Clark.

"Clark. What kept you?"

"Rick. What do you want?"

"Can I bring you over the file I told you about?"

"Rick, it's a Sunday afternoon. I was going to go to the park, relax, maybe get a coffee and sit out."

"We can sit out. I'll even buy the coffee. Just lemme bring you the file."

Dr Murray sighs heavily. Seems like this variety of Rick's enthusiasm has really caught his butterfly mind. If he ever targeted his intelligence and focused on one goal, he'd be frighteningly effective. Instead, most of the time he's amusing, as he bounces like a pinball from bumper to bumper. However, what harm can it do to indulge his friend? Especially as it makes for some really good reading, eventually. "Okay. I'll meet you at the Kerbs Boathouse, around three."

"Thanks, Clark." There. Progress. He'll find out more, and tell her, and she'll be happy, and impressed, and open up. Meanwhile, thanks to his mother, he now needs to find a way to make Beckett comfortable coming here. He doubts that she'll accept an invitation in the near future, in case she has to meet his family again. At least… if she's the only invitee. Ah-ha. What if he invites everyone, before a new body drops? Let's see now… yes. A poker game. He knows Montgomery plays: he's a part of the regular gang now. Ryan and Esposito play, some, they've mentioned it very occasionally. Beckett? He doesn't know. Another thing he doesn't know about her. But he _does_ know, from Ryan, that Beckett can shoot pool. (It's so nice to talk to Ryan. He's so informative. And so naïve about Castle's reasons for talking to him. Then again, Castle hasn't ever mentioned any reason apart from research for the book to him.) So if poker doesn't work, and he can't get her here, a night in a bar with the boys and Lanie shooting pool might at least give him half a chance of going home with her, even if it's to hers.

She might have told him she'll see him when the next body drops, but that's not her decision to make. He'll go to the precinct tomorrow, and sound everybody out. And in addition to that, he has another idea. It's a little devious, perhaps, but… Nikki needs a back story; a history, and that history needs to be realistic. He needs to know, therefore, how cops become cops, and more; how, and why, they become Homicide cops. He needs to know about the Academy, and about being a uniformed cop; what areas a cop might work in, how a cop might be selected – if they are selected – to join Homicide – or do they apply? And if they apply, are they still in uniform, or are they automatically a detective? He doesn't think so, but he really does not know. He needs to know, so that if he wants to refer to Nikki's history, he gets it right. He would hate it to be wrong, because there are plenty of readers out there who will pick it up and – quite rightly, but still painfully – criticise him for it, on fan forums or by writing to Black Pawn. Much better to get it right in the first place. Of course, getting it right means grilling a real cop, who does real Homicide detecting. Otherwise known as Beckett.

Per Montgomery's orders, Beckett is supposed to let him shadow her and answer any – and all – questions about cop matters that he might have. As long as he disguises his questions as relating to facts, she'll give away huge chapters of her history even without saying anything personal. Yes. That will work. And she'll need to tell him it all here, where he can take notes and add them to his storyboard – ah. Better make sure the correct file is up on the storyboard. Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise. He'll just do that now, since the other file isn't making any progress, and won't, until Clark gives him some answers. Right. He swiftly adjusts the electronics. That's done.

Back to the immediate thought. Notes, answers, history; here in his study. Yes. And of course it will need to be after hours, since Beckett has a full-time job – not to mention all the extra hours she adds to it. She won't – and wouldn't want to – answer all his questions during shift. Which is just as well, because he doesn't want her to be answering them in the precinct, or indeed in working hours at all. If she's here, and if he adds a glass of wine or two, she might relax a little: enough to give some information, even if it's only the tone of her voice or the expression on her face or her body language. And there might even be the opportunity for other forms of discourse. Mmmm. This idea just gets better and better.

So. Poker, and research. Yes. Perfect.

He wanders off to meet Dr Murray, whistling cheerfully and completely tunelessly as he goes.

* * *

Beckett has gone home to deal with her normal Sunday pursuit: her laundry pile, which is more than usually immense as a result of the hours she's put in on this latest case. She looks at it disgruntledly and starts to sort it out. Unfortunately, that leaves a considerable amount of available headspace into which other thoughts can readily clamber. Another good reason to hate housework. It takes far too much time (any time at all, in fact, would be too much) but it doesn't occupy the brain. She considers, again, getting a cleaning service, but she doesn't want someone she doesn't know in her apartment, so she'll just have to put up with doing it herself.

While she tosses clothes into the appropriate piles, her thoughts keep wheeling around the whole uncomfortable morning, which leads her on to the whole uncomfortable situation with Castle. She reluctantly admits to herself – _very_ reluctantly – that he isn't quite as much of an irritant in the precinct any more. More of an amusement. Like having a St Bernard around, really: overly large, overly friendly, and very occasionally really, really useful. Though she does wonder about the difference between Castle in the precinct and Castle out of the precinct. Which one's real?

It doesn't matter, she decides. The best way to deal with this morning's situation is to ensure it doesn't happen again. There's no reason to be sociable with his family beyond civil necessity, and no reason to go to Castle's loft without a case-related reason, such as picking him up. Theory can be confined to the precinct, or the phone. She has a wholly adequate apartment, should private space be required. Another perfectly sensible boundary.

She throws her first lot of laundry in and settles down with a cup of coffee and a good book. It almost stops the nagging voice, whispering in her ear, that she's kidding herself; that she went past the boundaries she's trying to establish the first time she admitted she was his. Because however hard she's ignoring it, she really ought to know that it meant a lot more to both of them than just a dominance game in bed.

* * *

Beckett swings into the precinct early on Monday looking forward to a quiet day in which she can clear up some more of the ever-present paperwork and be ready when the next case drops. It won't be long: it never is in New York. She makes herself a cup of proper coffee from Castle's machine without even flinching and starts the clear-up of the screeds of paper still left in her in-tray despite her Saturday activities. An hour or so later, the boys roll in for the start of shift.

"Yo, Beckett." Esposito looks her over, grinning widely. "Bit casual today, ain'tcha?"

"Huh?" Beckett drags her head, and mind, out the file.

"Bit under-dressed. Where's the glam, the glitz? Don't you wanna dress up for us?" Oh God, here they go. She should have known she'd never get away with that dress without being ragged up and down the bullpen.

"Nah." It's wholly bored. It doesn't stop anything, now Espo's on a roll.

"So we get to look at pants and button-downs, an' Writer-Boy gets to look down your" -

"Finish that sentence, Espo, and you'll never speak another."

"No fair, Beckett. We deserve to look at some glamour too."

"Told you, Espo, you stretched the last one. And Ryan's too short and too thin to suit it. But" – she smiles just as toothily as Esposito – "if you wanna get some glamour, I hear they're hiring down at Lucky Cheng's drag club on 1st Avenue. I'll even make an appointment for you both. As a couple." Espo growls. Ryan splutters. And at that moment Montgomery emerges from his office.

"Beckett. Good morning. Hear you made a big impression Friday night. You and Castle looked quite the society couple, the Mayor told me." He grins innocently. Beckett winces. "How's his research going?"

"I don't know, sir. I haven't asked." Her voice conveys _and I don't want to know_. Which is when an offensively perky voice pipes up behind her.

"It's going quite well." Phew, thinks Beckett. Soon, all this disruption will be over. She ignores the slight twinge in her chest. "But there's a lot I still need to know." She similarly ignores the small wash of relief.

Montgomery smiles chummily at Castle, and directs a meaningful stare at Beckett. "I'm sure Detective Beckett will be happy to tell you anything you want to know. Won't you, Detective?"

"Yes," she has no option but to mutter. She's _almost_ certain that Montgomery is not looking any more significantly at Castle than usual.

"Just make sure that your research doesn't interfere with Detective Beckett's work." Which Beckett thinks sounds really, really good; until she parses the potential meanings of the sentence properly. Then she realises that it's a double-edged sword, balanced right against her throat. If Castle's not to interfere with her work, then she doesn't have to answer his stupid questions all day. Though he'll still be on her tail all the time. But... if she doesn't answer them in the daytime, then she'll have to answer them later. After work. She mutters darkly to herself, and curses Montgomery for ever starting this whole shadowing business. Then she glares at him. He merely smiles back cheerily, and departs.

When she turns to glare at Castle, on whom her glare has half a chance of working, he's over with the boys. His back is radiating smug satisfaction. His voice is discussing poker, and is also radiating smug satisfaction. Beckett crams down the childish impulse to throw something at his head. It sounds as if the three men are discussing a poker game at Castle's loft. The boys are unsurprisingly enthusiastic. When Castle oozes through Montgomery's door it's evident from the tone of the chatter that Montgomery is enthusiastic too. Castle re-emerges with a happy smile and aims for his chair. Beckett mistrusts both smile and aim immediately.

"Roy" – Roy? Since when have they been on first-name terms? – "tells me you've played a bit of poker too. Enough to know the ropes." Beckett preserves a wholly cool expression. Inside, she's dying to laugh. Montgomery is clearly playing Castle. He knows perfectly well that Beckett can shuffle and deal.

"Some," she says. Yeah. She's played some poker. She'd funded her college bar bill shooting pool and her – considerably larger – textbook account, and half her trip to Kiev, on the card table. Not a scrap of that extremely interesting history shows on her face. "Why?"

"Well. I wanted to give you all a treat. A thank you for following you all around. So I thought – since I knew everyone but you played poker – that you could all come over, eat my food, drink my beer, play a few hands and have a good time. As long as you played too." He looks hopeful. "Everyone else is in. Are you?"

"When?" Castle shuffles a little.

"Tonight? Alexis is out at a study group, so it's a good opportunity."

Beckett considers. She has nothing to do tonight apart from paperwork unless a new body drops. It's a team invitation, so it doesn't breach her boundaries. And the thought of taking a large amount of money off the boys and Castle and indeed Montgomery, whose motives she currently severely distrusts, is quite appealing. There's a pair of Ferragamos she's seen on Fifth Avenue…

"Okay."

"If you can't make it then we'll – what?"

"Okay. What time?"

"Eight or so. Gives me time to re-stock the liquor cabinet." Beckett raises an eyebrow, inquiringly.

"What? My mother drinks my liquor all the time. She and her stage door friends. So I have to check before you all get here."

Espo and Ryan wander over. "Is it on?" They look at Beckett as if she's their mom and they're asking permission to go to a party. She sighs.

"Yes, boys. We can all go to the circus tonight."

"I'll be the ringmaster," Castle grins. Beckett looks him up and down critically.

"Actually, I was thinking that you were the clown." He winces. Ryan wades in to defend Castle.

"Nah. Castle's not the clown." He smiles at Ryan's words. "He's the show pony." The smile is wiped instantly.

* * *

The day proceeds without a new murder or indeed anything interesting at all. Castle doesn't hang around, for a wonder, and after an hour or so Esposito gets bored of hassling Beckett about Friday night. Mainly because she'd dialled all but the final digit of Lucky Cheng's on speaker with the volume up full. Ryan, having more sense than Esposito – or simply being less brave – has been very quiet on the subject. At least where Beckett might hear anything.

Ryan and Esposito, however, have their own views on Friday night's events, and a quiet day with no murders and atrociously tedious paperwork is generally the perfect time to disappear for a proper lunch break and discuss important matters of bullpen significance. Or, more accurately translated, gossip.

"So, Espo. Whaddya think of Friday, then?" Ryan looks mischievous. Esposito grins back, evilly.

"Made a pretty pair, didn't they?"

"Yeah, really pretty." Ryan sniggers. "Perfectly matched. Didya see them dancing?" Espo nods.

"So you've noticed too."

"Hard to miss, Espo. 'Specially for hot-shot detectives like us. Last time I saw that sort of look it was on a Rottweiler outside a butcher's window. Dunno about her, though. Beckett plays it far too close to the vest to read."

"I'll bet you they get it on. Fifty."

"No bet. It's gonna happen. Sweepstake. I call – another three, four weeks from now."

"I call two weeks. He looks at her like she's dinner an' he's starving."

"Think Lanie might wanna join in?"

"Lanie?" Espo's dubious. "Lanie's got an inside track. She's Beckett's friend. Girls talk, don't they?"

"Beckett? Talk? An' I wouldn't let either of them hear you callin' them girls, if you wanna live. C'mon, Espo. We need a bigger pool than your cheapskate wallet." Esposito shrugs.

"Why not? But no-one else. Don't want Beckett hearing about it. I like living. Suits me."

Ryan nods emphatically. Living suits him, too.

When they're seated with their lunches, though, Esposito gets a more serious look.

"Ryan, d'you know _why_ Castle's been let into the precinct?"

"Nah. I figured he leant on the brass. Politics." He looks as if he wants to spit.

"I don't see Montgomery putting up with that if he didn't have a reason. He's gotta have a reason for letting Writer-Boy hang around Beckett."

Ryan thinks for a moment or two. Put like that, it is odd. Montgomery likes their solve rate, and anything that bothers Beckett is likely to affect it. Castle certainly bothers Beckett: that's clear, but… their solve rate hasn't dropped any. Fact is, it might even be better. Even with the way-out theories included. Anyway. Castle is – well, fun to have around. And useful.

"He sure does irritate her, though."

"Yeah. Suppose it gives her something other than murder to think about." Esposito checks for an instant, and swallows the thought of the Castle he'd seen in the bar, that he'd given the file to. "She needs to get her head outta homicide sometime or she'll crash and burn."

They think in tandem and silence for another few moments. Nothing else comes to them.

"Nope. No other ideas. You could ask the Captain."

"Or you can. I said I like living."

And, with no further ideas, lunch is over and the paperwork awaits. But now they've got a new interest – their bet. They'll be watching a lot more closely, now there's money on it. But very discreetly. Beckett is not forgiving if she thinks that her life is being speculated upon. Not that there has previously been anything to speculate about.

But now there is.

* * *

_Thank you to reviewers. It's the only way I know if any of you are enjoying this, or like it, or indeed hate what I'm doing but can't look away (like a ski crash). Please tell me._


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34: Aces high**

Beckett is not a little amused to see Ryan and Esposito's reactions to Castle's loft. She's a lot less amused to note that Montgomery is clearly very familiar with it. So that's how he's got to be _Roy_. She's distinctly _un_amused (she's not scared of Martha's interrogation techniques. No. Absolutely not at all.) to find that Castle's mother is making up the party. Maybe she can hide behind Ryan or Esposito. Maybe there's safety in numbers. She manages to sit well away from her, anyway, without being in any way rude, and as a consequence starts to enjoy the evening.

She enjoys it much more as she starts to win. Montgomery is sporting a Cheshire Cat smile, despite his losses, but Castle is looking rather as if he's working out that he's been pranked. The boys are flirting with Castle's mother, which has the happy advantages of keeping her amused and keeping Beckett out of the line of interrogative fire. As Beckett keeps winning, a certain air of tension develops around the table. Matters, and chips, flow back and forward, but net-net Beckett's still some way ahead, with Castle clearly second. It all comes down to the last hand, as Esposito calls time on the night.

Martha folds early. Beckett would really rather not know that Martha prefers strip poker, and she would certainly vastly prefer that Martha wasn't winking at her while discussing its advantages. Martha's clearly on her side. That's worrying. She hadn't wanted to be audited for the role of girlfriend. She's even less happy that she appears to have passed. She doesn't want to get involved, but it seems that involvement is stalking her. Especially as out the corner of her eye she can see Ryan and Esposito exchanging meaningful glances. Beckett doesn't think that those glances are related to the _boys'_ partnership, somehow.

Beckett's been dealt a good hand, and decides to play large. After a little to-and-froing, the other cops drop out too. Beckett smiles in a _have-you-got-the-balls_ way and Castle takes the bait. Esposito moves the game along. Castle taps his hand and grins slyly.

"What's the matter? You're not afraid of a little action, are you?" His smirk could be read a number of ways. The interested audience appear to be interpreting it to mean cash betting. Beckett thinks it means something else entirely. It's as well she isn't here on her own. Strip poker might be the least of her worries, if she were. Though on the basis of the evening so far, she'd still be fully clothed.

"All in." She's not afraid of anything. She shoves the entire pile of her chips into the centre of the table and looks challengingly at Castle, who looks back thoughtfully. The boys and Montgomery whoop and holler.

Castle looks at Beckett, looks at his hand, looks at the chips on the table. He's certain he's won, if he wants it. He always likes winning. But right now he has to decide what he wants to win more. A lot of money from Beckett; which would be satisfying because she's been beating him all evening and he doesn't like losing, but carries the risk that she might not feel like staying around after the others leave; or fold, let her win and indulge her terrifyingly competitive instincts, and leave her in a good mood for later … activities. He looks back up at Beckett. He hasn't got the slightest inkling of her hand. Clearly, by shoving in all her chips, she thinks it's a winning hand – or she's bluffing really, really well – and he simply cannot tell which. That's actually very worrying. If he can't read her now, is he reading her correctly at any time? He parks that thought for later, and makes a snap decision. He folds. He would _almost_ certainly have won the hand, and the pot, but he'd rather win the Detective.

She's ridiculously triumphant, and everyone follows her lead. No doubt he'll be _Loser_ for a week, or until something new takes their fancy, just like everyone else gets ragged. But then Beckett's phone rings and they've got a new body, and everyone snaps into work mode.

On the way to the crime scene, Castle fends off Beckett's commentary on his card playing, liberally bespattered with references to losing, with one half of his brain and frets about his earlier realisation with the other. He's been proceeding on the basis that he can read Beckett's tone and body language pretty accurately, whether she's realised that or not and whether she wants him to or not. Coming up hard against a situation where that was emphatically not the case makes him wonder if he's been bluffed at other times. It's unnerving. He's sure she's not able to conceal or mislead him about her reactions when she's under his hands and mouth and body. He's suddenly very much less sure about other occasions. Like whenever she's not.

"What was your winning hand, Beckett?"

"Winning, Castle. That's all that matters." She's smirking.

"You were bluffing, weren't you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know. Not telling you." Still smirking. "What does it matter, anyway?"

"I want to know."

"I want doesn't get," Beckett flips back smartly.

"I'll remember that, Beckett." His tone has changed suddenly. "Turnabout's fair play, after all." It's possibly just as well that they turn up at the crime scene – a shabby, sleazy rent-by-the-hour hotel – at that point. Beckett doesn't necessarily want to explore that statement. Well, not anywhere other than in private. Certainly not now. There's a corpse demanding her attention, and with Lanie as the attending ME she'd better focus, because Lanie will give her enough to get started whether the body's on the slab or in a Dumpster.

Or, it turns out, in a bath full of motor oil with a dent in the back of its head. Ugh. She gets all the weird ones, but this is definitely up there in the really nasty category. Midnight at the motel, with motor oil. Just as long as no-one starts making sick jokes about lube. Black humour is one thing. Necrophilia is quite another. Eurgh.

Interviewing the desk clerk, who's a rather bored type until Beckett exerts some force of personality and starts extracting some answers from him, is a pretty pointless exercise. If your trade is composed of New York's seedier nightlife, then your definition of strange is… well, skewed. He's not really any help at all. The guests won't be: they likely rent the rooms by the hour, and they won't want to be found afterwards, judging by the one who's just walked by. (she must introduce Esposito to him, he's big, blonde, in a dress and looks like he's the lead act for a really down market drag show, with a side order of street walking)

Okay. It's close to 1 a.m., and it's time to go home. The body's been removed, there's nothing more to learn here, and until Lanie can tell her a bit more there's not much further to go. She could go to the precinct and set up her board, but she could do that just as well after some sleep. She swithers indecisively.

"I'll drop you off, Castle. Time to leave it for tonight."

Castle looks sidelong at Beckett. He's not wholly sure he believes her.

"You wouldn't be planning on starting on the case without me, would you?" Beckett looks resigned. She had thought about it. But now she's been caught out. If she does go to the precinct, Castle will follow her there.

"I am going home for some sleep." She pauses. "And to dream about everything I might buy with my winnings."

He flicks a glance around. They've made it outside the seedy hotel, and the area is deserted, and much more importantly extremely dark. He puts a hand on Beckett's back to steer her away from the building and back to her car, and takes the opportunity to stroke gently, down into the dimple at the base of her spine, where it makes her shudder.

"I could help you sleep," he murmurs seductively in her ear. His words whisper over her neck. His hand slips round to pull her into the curve of his arm while no-one's there to see. He needs to touch her. He hasn't really touched her since Saturday – Sunday didn't count - and he misses it. (Her. He misses her.) When she doesn't instantly curl in, he tugs a little harder, exerts just a little more force, and doesn't miss her slight intake of breath nor her accession to his action. "That's better." He draws insinuating small patterns on her hip, just hard enough to be felt through her clothes. Some… persuasion… seems indicated.

They're almost to the car, and once they're in it the window of opportunity for persuasion of any kind other than verbal will shut. Action is clearly indicated. Castle stops moving, which given the location of his hand perforce requires Beckett to stop too, somewhat inelegantly; swings round to face her and dips his head to claim her mouth firmly. More accession. And access. He holds her tightly against him and savours her; tasting as if she were a fine Bordeaux; one hand slipping upward to tangle in her hair, the other gliding downward over her ass to press her hard in where he can move against her in just the right way to make her wriggle in reply. When she pulls her mouth away her breathing is ragged and her body lax. Castle loosens his grip marginally.

"You'd sleep better if I came back with you and kissed you goodnight," he husks.

"How are you proposing to do that? I said I'd drop you at yours."

"It would be much nicer if you didn't." He insinuates a hand under her jacket and flirts it round her ribs.

"And then what?" He smiles slowly, and even in the dim streetlights it's unbearably sexy.

"Let's see." It drips slow, sensual suggestion. She couldn't deny that it's an attractive option. A very attractive way, in fact, to end the evening on a better note than the vision of corpses drowned in motor oil. She doesn't need to dream of the smooth black surface, oozing over the half-sunken face; right now she can't even scrub it from the inside of her eyelids. And behind this corpse are so many others, right back to the very beginning. A kiss or two would help that, she thinks. Leave her with some different dreams.

Still, she shrugs, as if she's indifferent, unwilling to capitulate so easily, so obviously, to his wants.

"You think, Castle?"

"I don't _think_, Beckett." He pulls her back in, grinds against her and listens to her soft moan as her stance opens. "I_ know_." He kisses her demandingly, taking and possessing as he chooses and claiming the noises from her mouth as she makes them. "Let's go home, Beckett."

She doesn't make an issue of his word choice, though she doesn't, this time, miss it. Time enough to deal with that later, though dealt with it will have to be. The dark car park of a trashy hotel at 1 a.m. is not the place: not when desire is thrumming through her veins and heat flowing into her nerves; not when she so badly needs _not _to see the drowned dead; the previous dead; the first death that set her on this path. She turns away and unlocks the car and by her lack of any objection gives consent.

The journey back is conducted in charged quiet. Even in the dark cabin of the cruiser, Castle doesn't dare touch Beckett: partly to avoid the ever-watchful cameras; partly because if he does touch her, he might not stop. He's uncomfortably aroused, and kisses have not satisfied him in the slightest.

His pent-up frustration, anger that his plans for Sunday were forestalled by matters beyond his control (being his mother), and not a small contribution of left-over annoyance from that very unsatisfactory conversation with Beckett where she didn't seem to care at all that he would be taking some other woman out to dinner and only made unkind jokes about not liking threesomes (and how does she even _know_ that? That is _not_ a helpful thought); all boil over at the point Beckett unlocks and opens her door, turns round and seems only to expect, if not precisely a peck on the cheek, a grown-up version of kisses and goodnight. That's not all that he wants, though if it's all that Beckett wants he'll have to deal with it. He shoves both of them inside, elbows the door shut again, and uses it as a Beckett-rest so that he can press into her and have both hands free to show her what he wants. What she might, he hopes, want. He plunders her mouth, his tongue invading to demand her surrender; his fingers slide up under her polo neck, only a fraction away from simply ripping it off over her head. She doesn't stop him: she answers in kind, caught up in the desperation of the moment and her need to be distracted from the swollen face of the corpse. The fastenings of her pants take barely longer to undo than it had taken to slide under her top_**. **_

He can't bear not to touch her, have her, here and now; fast and rough, wholly possessive; _his_. He ceases ravaging her mouth, moves to her neck, nips sharply on her earlobe; enough to draw a gasp and wriggle, for her hands to flex sharply on his shoulders and pull him closer. He moulds her breasts and she presses into him, popping his buttons free, shoving his shirt clear of his shoulders and matching his frenetic stripping of her clothes and control. He's too inflamed to have any control: he just has to be inside her, _now_, and Beckett doesn't seem inclined to slow down either.

"Make me forget, Castle." He checks at that, just for the slightest instant. Beckett rocked by a corpse? And then she rolls against him and his pants are open and her dangerous, questing fingers are stroking along him and releasing him and he's found her wet and open and oh-so-ready and _now Castle_ he slams into her and _oh fuck_ she wants him he can feel it as she tightens hard round him and everything is her and him and nothing else and he slides his fingers over her and it's all over that fast.

They're still leaning on the door. Or, possibly, leaning on each other, with the door making up for the weakness in their respective knees. They're both still mostly dressed, too. They stagger to the couch and collapse into it. Castle settles Beckett comfortably against him where he can play gently with a wisp of her hair, stroke her shoulder, and try to work out that astonishing admission: _make me forget_. Unconsciously he cuddles her closer. What's she trying to forget? The gruesome corpse of tonight's variety of New York homicide? Or… something else? _She's heading for burnout_. It trickles through his mind in Esposito's harsh accent. Does it matter what she's trying to forget, if she needs to forget? As long as it's not him, of course. She's not to forget him. Yes, it does matter. Another tiny piece of her story, another tile for his complex mosaic. But a slim, icy needle pierces him as he muses. What if she's just using him to forget? What if it's not he who makes it better for her, but anyone would do? He's not recently been used to insecurity about women. Writing… that's another matter, but women do not normally provoke him to insecurity. He doesn't realise that he's clutching Beckett tighter with every unhappy thought until she speaks.

"Castle, I need to breathe. Loosen up, or let go and find a stress ball."

"Don't want to let go," he says deliberately childishly, grinning, and makes her laugh. But he loosens his arms some, enough that she can breathe.

"Better." She glances at her watch and winces at the time. "I need to sleep. You'll want to go home. Lanie'll expect me at nine to see the corpse." Castle doesn't want to go home yet. He'll get home for breakfast, because that's non-negotiable if he hasn't told Alexis he won't be there. He tries never to disappoint her, because she's the only thing that's kept him whole.

Beckett heaves herself up from the couch and her rather comfortable position wrapped up in Castle's arms. The dead are locked away again, for the moment, but she's not at all confident that they'll stay in their coffins and out of her dreams once she's alone again. She won't ask for company, though. That's far, far too close to asking for a relationship, or asking for help, and that's not what she does. She'll do it herself, if she must. She can face down the dead herself, if she has to. It's just that tonight she really doesn't want to do it alone, with the smeared, swollen body still painted on the inside of her eyes.

"I'll stay, if you promise not to kill me in your sleep." As soon as he says it he's terrified he's crossed another line, that she'll start to shut him down, shut him out. But she needs him to help her forget, she _asked_ him to make her forget, and if she lets him stay then his need to start to take care of her might be assuaged, for a while. Long enough, perhaps, for him to work out how he can do so on a regular basis without Beckett noticing. If _he_ doesn't take some steps to move this forward, _she_ certainly won't. He does want it to move forward. He wants to know that she's in this for more than a succession of one night stands, for more than a short affair. But in the ten days since he'd first thought about that, he hasn't had the slightest indication that she's moved her position on at all.

Huh? It sounds like half a joke, but the front of that sentence is at least as much a question as a decision. She hasn't asked him to stay, but it sounds like he's offering. So if she's not asking, then she's not doing anything that could be construed as her wanting to be taken care of, and she's not showing that she needs, or is asking for, any help. So it would stay firmly within the boundaries she's set. And thoroughly content with that piece of convoluted, self-deceptive reasoning, which has the happy result of getting her what she wants but wouldn't request, a large, warm Castle about to be in her bed and keeping the cold corpses away, she smiles.

"Can't promise. Who knows what dreams may come? But I won't do it deliberately." She's turned away before she can see his glazed look. He'd never expected that she'd say yes. But she has and he is _definitely_ not stupid enough to backtrack now.

She looks cuter, younger, when her face is bare, though the silky sleep tee and shorts don't incline him to rest. Still, he's not a callow youth any more, and he recognises the importance of Beckett needing to be rested before she sees Lanie. He grits his teeth, and washes up in cold water, hoping that it will assist him.

It doesn't. Sliding into Beckett's bed clad only in boxers and with the smooth material of her nightwear slithering against him as he tugs her firmly into his chest (he is going to enjoy every minute of this second occasion to keep her close, and this time he is going to hold on to her and ensure she stays put) does absolutely nothing for Castle's overactive imagination and overheating fantasies. He notes with some displeasure that Beckett seems to have been able to fall asleep with no trouble at all, and thinks darkly that, were it not for the sure and certain knowledge that if he gets between her and her work he will be sitting on the kerb with a sore, shoe-printed ass faster than he can blink, he would spend some time ensuring that when he woke her she'd find herself as aroused and frustrated as he is now, and then he'd keep her that way till tomorrow – tonight. He closes his eyes, and tries not to think about that.

He wakes occasionally, disoriented by the unfamiliar room, finds Beckett next to him and sleeps again, content. When morning slinks into the room, though, she's missing again. He untangles himself from the covers – it looks like a pack of gophers had been building tunnels with them, and he's sure it isn't his fault, he generally sleeps quite tidily – dresses, and emerges to investigate, already disappointed in the day. He'd wanted to wake with her in his arms. He doesn't ask himself why. He doesn't need to know why. He'd wanted it, because that's what happens in a longer-term affair. That's all. So being this disappointed is a perfectly natural reaction. Even if it's never happened before. It's only because he hasn't had a long-term affair since college.

He carefully doesn't think that he had never been this disappointed if any other woman with whom he might happen to be was missing when he woke, either.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers. _

_I have a question for you all. Would you like me to stick to every two days or to move to daily posting? Thank you._


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35: Go hard at each other**

Beckett is sitting at her table with a cup of strong coffee, a spare mug for Castle, and the remains of the contents of the cafetiere beside her, enveloped in a heavy, satiny robe and lost in thought. Mostly, and certainly intentionally, she's thinking about the case. Occasionally, she's thinking about why she had let Castle stay, though every time that starts to intrude on her mind she tucks it back in a box marked _Later_.

She's been working out her plan for the day and the case for the last half hour, since she'd woken, the early side of six a.m.; unwilling to start her morning routine until Castle's gone. She likes to have a space for clearing her head in the morning, time to plan her day; time to remember why she wears the watch, the ring; time to focus on the quick and the dead. So when Castle appears from her room her first thought is not appreciation of his physical qualities but something rather closer to _oh good now I can get on with the day_. It's probably as well he can't read her mind.

On the other hand, when he slides up behind her, crosses his arms across her to hug her in and drops a kiss on top of her head – and then releases her, doesn't push, recognises that she's likely in work mode; she feels a whole lot better about it. Setting some boundaries is clearly working out well. She turns round to him, offers him the cafetiere and the mug, and is more than a little surprised when he declines. His expression's changed, too. He'd looked a little pensive when she'd turned round: but now she's offered him coffee he's looking... well, smug.

"No coffee?" Castle grins happily. Even if she'd got up, which he didn't appreciate, the offer of coffee is a whole lot further forward than the last time he stayed, when she'd practically shoved him out the door and made it clear, to boot, that she'd not cared if he was there or not. More importantly and _much_ more hopefully, she looks surprised that he isn't going to stay long enough for coffee. His mood improves dramatically.

"No. I want to get home to Alexis, and I want a shower and shave and clean clothes before I get to the morgue." He smiles a sleepy, heavy-lidded smile, far too sensual to be allowed outside the bedroom. It distracts her from her previous thoughts quite effectively. "Unless you want Lanie to start asking questions."

Beckett shakes her head firmly. The last thing she wants or needs is Lanie asking questions. Largely because she still has no idea what any of the answers might be.

"Okay. See you there?" He still looks ridiculously – and annoyingly – self-satisfied.

Beckett stands up. Peace to prepare for the day, yes. But that doesn't mean she can't treat that smile the way it deserves and, not coincidentally, leave him just a tad discomfited first. He's just a little too sure of himself, this morning, since she offered coffee. She slinks over to him, slings her arms around his neck and pulls his head down firmly. It's _her_ turn to possess, to own. She kisses him and then strokes over his excellent ass with the firm intent of leaving him ruffled all day. His response is instant, his hands driving under the robe and her tee and suddenly everything catches fire and she may have left him disturbed but _oh_ if he doesn't stop doing that she'll be hopelessly undone and _oh don't stop doing that_ as his hand dips under the shorts. She fights back by unzipping his pants and employing wicked fingers to stroke over hard weight but _fuck_ his fingers are inside her and she brings a leg up around him and _this is insane what are they doing_ he's brought her right to the edge and picks her up to throw her back on the bed and somehow they're both stark naked and he's back inside her and _ohhh_.

That wasn't supposed to happen. That was absolutely not supposed to happen. She was going to tease him a little, leave him hot and bothered, and then he was supposed to go home and she'd see him at the morgue. It was _not_ supposed to turn into uncontrollable, scorching sex. Not without her planning it, anyway.

That was _not_ supposed to happen. She'd teased him and he'd _meant_ just to tease her a little back to leave her hot and bothered through the day and suddenly he'd – _they'd_ – lost control and instead of going home and then to the morgue he'd ended up kissing hell out her and then it had all hit flashpoint and then they were back in her bed and she was _his_. He brings her into his body and holds her close and _oh this_ is how he should wake up every morning.

Morning. Oh_ shit_! He should be home. He sits up in a hurry. "I have to go. Right now. I'll be late. Alexis will worry." But he still takes time to lean over and kiss Beckett hard until she's definitely bothered and then dresses and exits with considerable rapidity. He's going to have some careful explaining – or lack of explaining – to do if he's not home very quickly.

Beckett doesn't move for an instant after the front door closes. Then she slowly gets up, sits on the side of the bed for a moment, and progresses to the hottest shower she can stand, trying to wash her brain clear at the same time she cleanses her body. She has to get a grip of this. _Okay, Kate. Think_. This is all completely out of hand. What was she doing? She thinks back over the last few days. She'd been kissing him in an alley at dawn – in public! – and then she'd brought him back here and dressed up for him simply because he'd told her to in that wicked, beautiful, _I'm-in-charge_ voice that somehow doesn't hit her brain before it takes control of her body. Which in itself is not actually a problem. She's quite happy to have sex with someone so incredibly good at making _her_ feel incredibly good. She knows what she likes, and Castle is proving to be exactly what she likes in bed. But she shouldn't be allowing him to kiss her in public. That's far, far too close to letting herself get into a relationship. To letting him think that she's open to a relationship. _You just need to sort out the boundaries, Kate._ Yes. No more kissing in public. Not in alleys, not in dark car parks at 1 a.m. when there's nobody around: not at all. No more sleepovers. Pull back, keep this controlled, limit the off-the-job contact to something she can manage.

She remembers that she needs to deal with his terminology. This is not his _home_. She can't start thinking that they have anything that might involve going _home_. There isn't a _home_, in the context of the two of them. It's a mutually enjoyable arrangement. Nothing more. _Boundaries, Kate. Don't make this into something it's not._ She stops. Why had she let him stay anyway? Well, because he'd asked. But she could have said no. Why'd she not say no? Because of the corpse: because of all the corpses that she needed to forget. Because she'd needed him to help her forget. Why'd he asked to stay? Oh. Oh shit. What had she done? She'd actually said out loud _Make me forget, Castle_. Oh _shit_.

She stands on her bathmat clinging to the towel round her, dripping and appalled. _What did I say that for?_ Oh _shit_. She can't afford to be weak, to look for support, to allow someone to take care of her. Especially when they've said they don't want to. It'll all end badly if she does. Apparent oaks always turn out to be ivy in the end, when the crisis comes. Her dad had broken, and almost taken her with him: had taken five years to rebuild himself, but he's never been the same paladin as he had been when she was a child. Now she supports him, loves him despite his failures, but he's not her support. Not now.

Sorenson had said he wanted a strong woman, but when crisis came he'd wanted it all his own way: thought that his career should mean that she'd sacrifice hers. He'd thought that she'd cave in to his ultimatum. But in the end she'd seen him for what he really was: a man who thought that merely being male was enough to have his own way in every matter, without discussion. He'd thought that she'd simply follow, without complaint. And when she'd objected; when the crisis came, he'd not even listened to her reasons. He'd said it was because he wanted to take care of her, give her a home, a marriage, children; and she'd heard the subtext of _don't worry about your job; it won't matter when we're married and you have babies_. He'd never understood that she could take care of herself: that she needed an equal partner, not an old-fashioned head-of-the-household. In the end, he couldn't cope with the idea that her career was as important, as successful, as his. He'd broken, in the face of her success, and his inability to deal with the consequences. And then there had been that other. She doesn't think about that.

She's done it all herself, as she'd had to. Saved herself, climbed out the pit. And learned along the way that you can't rely on anyone, that taking care means taking control, that asking for help is just a way of showing that you're weak, that you can't do it for yourself.

While she's been thinking, she's unconsciously moved through her morning routine, and now she's groomed and ready to go. It's still quite early. There's still time to salvage this: to keep it on an even, undemanding keel. Because if she can't bring this back to something she can manage, if she can't be sure that this is going to stay well away from relationships and revelations and romance, she'll need to quit. She can't afford to get into something where she's invested. It only ends badly.

It always has ended badly.

* * *

By nine at the morgue Beckett's already left a list of matters to be looked into and a decorated murder board in the bullpen for Ryan and Esposito's amusement. It's had the convenient effect of shutting off any other considerations from her mind, too. At least she knows where she is with murder, however gruesome. One goal, one mission. Just one solution. All she has to do is find it.

Lanie's relatively helpful: yes drowned, yes hit on the head. So far, so yesterday. Sleeping pill – okay, that's new; ticket from Westchester – home run! Or at least a lead. Despite Castle's sick jokes (she wonders what took him so long, and then remembers that he'd been… er… distracted last night. This morning. Aargh. Now she's distracted.) nice suburban women just do not go down to lower Manhattan SROs to die. Especially not with sleeping pills and motor oil. There's a mystery here. And… likely someone will have noticed her missing by now. Maybe even reported it. A thread. Already, a thread. She's energised, desperate to get back to her desk and start tugging on it.

Lanie is deeply unsurprised to see Kate itching to get out the morgue and back to the bullpen. She's also unsurprised to see Castle following at equal speed. However, she _was_ surprised to notice just how close to Kate Castle was standing, without Kate apparently noticing or caring. Or killing him. Hmm. It's at that point that Esposito rings her.

"Yo, Lanie."

"Espo. What do you want? Beckett and Writer-Boy just left with the details. They'll be back to you shortly."

"Yeah, I know. Wanted to catch you before Beckett gets back." Lanie's intrigued.

"Spill, Espo. Quickly."

"Me 'n' Ryan, we think Beckett's a bit fonder of Writer-Boy than she lets on." Lanie smirks to herself. Call themselves Detectives? She'd worked that one out weeks ago. Still, they're men. Feelings are not their bag.

"So?"

"So we got a little pool running. When they'll hook up. Wanna join in? Fifty dollars to play." Hmm. Free money. Lanie is sure that she'll win this. The question is, will Kate kill her if she finds out Lanie was betting on her? No. Kate's her best friend. Beat her up a little, maybe. But not too much.

"Okay, I'm in."

"So when d'ya think they'll get together?" Lanie thinks about this morning, and her evening with Kate a couple of weeks ago. "Ryan said four weeks. I reckon two." And then Lanie thinks about how stubborn and downright stupid Kate can be.

"Six." Esposito gasps.

"Six? Okay then. Shit. Gotta go. They just walked in."

* * *

Fortunately Espo has something for Beckett which prevents her noticing his flusterment. It is indeed a missing person report. Beckett doesn't prevent her satisfied smile breaking through. Nice suburban types are _always_ missed. Still, no jumping to conclusions. Time to go and interview this man. Beckett's fairly certain that he'll turn out to be the husband.

It's a reasonable way out to Westchester: a good 45 minutes at the best of times. Castle thinks that this might be a good time to begin his plan for Beckett to show up at his loft and answer questions about police training and recruitment. And she could usefully tell him her name, too. He'd forgotten that he'd intended to wheedle that from her.

Beckett thinks that this – or maybe on the way back – might be a good time to correct Castle's terminology and references to _going home_. Maybe in the quiet privacy of her cruiser she can manage to explain the point without a problem. She's sure he'll understand that it's not appropriate in the context of their interactions. She concentrates on negotiating the Manhattan traffic chaos – does nobody use their mirrors any more? – and on how she might raise the subject, and as a result she doesn't notice that Castle's talking for a few words after he's begun.

"Sorry? Missed that."

"I need to know about the Academy, and becoming a cop." She sucks a breath through her teeth. "For Nikki. If I need to refer to how she got to be a Homicide detective, I need to get it accurate. Otherwise the fans criticise me." He affects a pathetic, hurt-child voice. "I don't like it when they're nasty to me." Beckett snorts.

"Like that would affect you." He humphs. "However. What d'you wanna know?"

"Everything."

"Try the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I only deal with cop matters." Castle growls.

"Everything about becoming a cop," he says in a tone of strained patience.

"So ask, then."

"I need to take notes while you're telling me. So actually, I thought that if I told you what I wanted now, you could come round later and I can add it to my storyboard." No. No no no. That's exactly what she's avoiding: too much off the job contact. He looks saintly. "Captain Montgomery told me not to distract you from the job." Which stops Beckett's nascent protest of _I'm not coming to your place_ dead, and leaves her frantically riffling through departmental regulations to discover whether there is one which will allow her to murder both her Captain and her infuriating shadow for causing her general annoyance and upset. She must know enough about homicides to cover her tracks by now. She doesn't see – yet – how she's going to avoid this.

"Why can't you just take notes on a notepad? I don't have to come to yours to answer the questions. It would be far better," she says, working it out as she goes, to try to get out of going to his place, "if the four of us all went to a bar and you could get everyone's take on it at once. Different viewpoints. Surely you need the background for your Roach characters too?" The question ends on a wholly innocent note.

Castle's view of Beckett's intelligence and downright sneakiness takes another step upward. That's really a very clever suggestion. In other circumstances, it might even have worked. Though he has no idea why she wouldn't want to come to his except that she's desperate to avoid his family. And he still doesn't understand that, either. The whole point, though, is that she comes to his.

"I've already talked to them. I don't want their views, I want the female perspective. Unless you want to tell me something about them?" Beckett snickers.

"If you're going to ask Esposito whether he's male or not I wanna know in advance. I could sell tickets and make a fortune."

"Are you trying to distract me, Detective?" Castle asks, suspiciously gently. "Because when I want something I don't get distracted easily." There are enough meanings freighting that statement that an encyclopaedia would be overwhelmed. He leaves it hanging for a moment. "I need answers, Beckett. So will you come over and provide them or not?"

Trapped. Dammit. If she refuses, he'll just go to Montgomery and she'll be ordered to. "If I've time. The case comes first."

She's abruptly thoroughly cross that he's pushing her into visiting him, when he has to have worked out that she doesn't want to, and then backing it up with the unspoken threat of her boss knowing that she's not co-operating. This is all moving – he's pushing her – too far, far too fast. She has to keep some boundaries. Because otherwise she'll become far too invested and it will just become another relationship disaster to add to her already wholly relationship-disaster-ridden life. She is not going to ignore common sense and self-protection just because her body wants him. Her annoyance with the way he seems to be trying to force the pace, inflamed by her own contradictory feelings, flares up. She needs him to back off, give her space to re-establish her control of the case, and this whole blazing affair, and her life. And he isn't. He's pushing and pushing and pushing and she needs to make him stop. She shouldn't have let him stay. That's why he thinks he can keep pushing now: because it had worked last night. He'd guessed that she'd needed him last night. She'd as good as said so. But she can't afford to need anyone.

She takes a moment or two to calm herself down again. She's getting overly worried about this. Massively overthinking it. All she needs to do is re-establish some boundaries and common sense. Starting with sorting out this ridiculous mis-statement of Castle's about _going home_. Of course he won't have meant it, but better just to clear it up now, before it becomes a problem.

"When you said last night 'Let's go home', I don't really think that was a good choice of words. We don't have that" – she says _that _but he hears _any_ – "sort of arrangement." She thinks she's managing to explain calmly. "I don't think it's a good idea to confuse matters like that, to make this into something it's not. You've got your home and I've got mine. I wouldn't want you to think I had any designs on your loft," she says lightly, trying to make a joke.

Castle sits in stunned silence in the passenger seat. She's using that same tone of sweet reasonableness that she used when explaining why she didn't stay, as when she'd said that they weren't dating: the one that implies that no-one could possibly disagree with the obvious common sense position and truth of her statement. He's trying to process Beckett's words and coming up with nothing except an earthquake of hurt and anger. She's just knocked down all his assumptions about where this is – they are - getting to without even trying. He thought she was coming closer. She clearly thinks that they're just as far apart as the night she spat that she didn't want taken care of and didn't want a relationship. Even worse, it sounds like that's where she wants to be. She didn't even use the word _relationship_.

"Oh?" he grits out, eventually. "And what sort of arrangement _do_ we have, then?" And then his fury and hurt get the better of him. "In my world when someone's been screaming my name under me and let me tie them to a bed that's enough of a _relationship _to justify saying that we're going home."

And that statement, and its wholly unintended but underlying implication that he's got a right to override her wishes just because they've had sex, lights up Beckett's temper just like a skyrocket. All her intentions to keep calm and deal with this in a reasonable, adult, well explained fashion go out the window.

"You'd know, wouldn't you? Well in _my_ world it doesn't work like that. In _my_ world you need to be a lot more involved before you can treat someone else's place like your own. I don't think you have any claim on my home. I don't recall your name appearing on my lease. And we do not have a _relationship_. We are not that involved." She doesn't say _nor will we be_. It hangs unspoken in the air.

Nobody says anything more till they get to Westchester. Castle is too blazingly angry to speak. Beckett is almost equally angry with him trying to pretend this is something it's not. She can't understand what his problem is. It's not as if she hasn't been perfectly honest about what she doesn't want. To wit, a relationship. Or being taken care of. She'd only been trying to clear the position up.

When she pulls up at the husband's house, before she can get out, Castle speaks again.

"Don't think that this means you don't have to answer my questions about procedure, Beckett. You still do. And you're still going to do so at my loft so I can work on my storyboard to write my book. Whether you like it or not."

"Whatever," she says, laden with boredom and attitude. "Ask your questions. I've been ordered to answer them, so I have to. The sooner you finish your book the sooner you'll be gone." She's out the car before he can think of a retort, pulling her professional persona around her as she does her jacket. She squashes her own upset at his reactions down and away.

Doing her job pulls Beckett's mind firmly away from her own problems and into the case. It's not the most informative interview, but being firm with a grieving spouse is generally counterproductive. The only nugget of information that helps is that the victim had a part-time job in Manhattan – but uptown. Not downtown near a sleazy SRO. Still, it's a lead. It's about the only good thing to come out of this field trip. Certainly the journey back will be unpleasant. She still can't see why he's so angry when all she's done is try to keep matters on an even, understood keel. They're not in a relationship, and they both agreed they weren't going to be. He should be happy that she's sticking to it. She very carefully avoids the corollary to that thought: that he isn't. Happy, or sticking to the agreement. And she certainly won't think about why. They have a deal.

Beckett calls Espo to follow up the employment lead, and then switches on the radio as soon as the engine fires and turns it up to a volume that makes it completely obvious that she doesn't expect conversation. Or quarrelling, which is much more likely. Neither she nor Castle says a word, all the way back to the precinct.

* * *

_Thank you to everyone who commented. As you will all have guessed, the majority vote was for daily posting. For those of you who were so kind as to say "but only if you can" thank you for your thoughtfulness. This story is now almost all written, so posting can speed up without it being a problem at all._

_I really appreciate all of your thoughts and comments. Do keep talking to me. All logged in reviews are answered._


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36: At that time of the night**

When Beckett stalks into the bullpen Ryan and Esposito instinctively flinch. She looks utterly pissed off, in a way they very rarely see and know potentially means trouble for everyone around her. A second, furtive, glance tells them that Castle is also utterly pissed off, in a way that neither of them have seen to date and that Ryan, at least, finds very surprising. Esposito puts the atmosphere together with his off-the-record discussion with a very different Castle from the precinct's happy-go-lucky version and decides that this may be a good day not to make cheap cracks about anything that might be interpreted, in any way at all, even in one of Castle's parallel universes, as them having a relationship.

"I'm just going to go make a coffee," Ryan mutters to Espo. "Hope you've got something to give Beckett. She doesn't look like she's in a good mood."

"Lanie bet on six weeks. I thought she was dumb, seeing how they were behaving Friday."

"Bet on what?" comes a unctuous, quiet voice behind him. Espo jumps like a jackrabbit.

"Nothing, sir. Nothing." Montgomery comes to stand in front of him and fix him with a penetrating stare.

"Hm. Detective Esposito," – he turns his head and includes Ryan in his glare – "Detective Ryan: if I thought either of you were wagering on the possibility of a sexual relationship between Detective Beckett and Mr Castle I would be truly disappointed…" he pauses, meaningfully. "I would be truly disappointed that you had not included me in your pool." Esposito chokes. "So I'll expect a visit from one of you at an appropriate time to allow me to place my bet." He leaves. Ryan hightails it to the break room before anything more can go wrong, and promptly scalds himself.

Esposito does indeed have some new information for Beckett: he is simply well aware that she isn't going to like it. It seems that their nice suburban lady had been lying to her husband. She doesn't have a job – at least not where she said she did. If she's been lying about that, what else is she lying about? Suddenly selling sex in an SRO seems like a likely call, and from there it's just a very short and completely irresistible step to all sorts of theories.

Beckett is wholly and sarcastically unimpressed by the theories. Her tone could be used to tan leather at a hundred paces, and it's all directed at the three of them. She's clearly winding up to deliver a skin-flaying dressing down (which Esposito thinks – despite his active participation in thinking up all sorts of ridiculous theories – is very unfair, since it's hardly his or Ryan's fault that the victim was lying, nor is it their fault that Castle's irritated her again) when the victim's husband walks in. He looks absolutely devastated. Beckett's bad mood falls off her in an instant as she ushers him into the interview room. Castle automatically follows her.

The devastation is rapidly explained when Mr Goldman tells them that his wife wasn't who he thought she was. Not just the usual meaning, that she'd been cheating or lying or any of the normal ways in which murder brings deception to light – but she actually was not the woman whose name and Social Security number she'd used. That's astonishing. Astounding. It's straight out the Day of the Jackal. Beckett feels wholly sorry for Mr Goldman. He'd trusted his wife, and it had all been a lie. There's nothing worse than your trust being destroyed: than people lying to you.

Beckett sighs, as soon as Goldman's out the door. Now she and the boys have to try and find out who the victim really was. It's going to be a long night of chasing DNA, fingerprints, and as many other databases as she can think of. If she's lucky, she'll get a few hours downtime. If they find some leads, that'll be postponed till tomorrow. Or the next day. And it'll be the break room couch for downtime and snatched naps, until it's done.

She doesn't notice Castle standing in the interview room as she walks out into the bullpen and starts rapping out the orders in her normal brisk fashion. She doesn't notice that he doesn't follow her out. And she doesn't notice when he goes home, without a word to anyone. She's far too busy following up anything that might provide a lead.

Ryan notices, though. Ryan notices Castle leaving: very stiff about the shoulders, looking unusually large, very intimidating, and extremely angry. And it's Ryan who, as soon as he can do so without anyone noticing, taps out a text to Castle. _What's up?_

Castle's gone home to soothe his savage feelings before he does something stupid. Stupid, in this context, meaning starting another wholesale row with Beckett in the precinct. He can't believe the extent of her capacity to hurt him without even realising it. He can't believe he's got himself into this position. But this time it isn't his fault that they fought. It _isn't_, he thinks angrily. Even if he lost his temper first, she started it. How can she still think they don't have a relationship?

Or… does she?

He likes that thought much better. Almost enough to calm down. Certainly enough to partake of a soothing glass of good red wine rather than his first inclination when he came in, which had involved throwing back several fingers of whiskey. Under the gentle influence and the comforting warmth of the alcohol on his tongue, he retrieves a thought he'd first had some days ago: that Beckett is quite astonishingly uncomfortable with openness and emotion. _Any_ openness and emotion: her own, his, or from anyone around her.

Umm. He'd already seen that: he'd noticed that every time she opens up she promptly closes off and backs away; he'd noticed her extreme and unjustified discomfort with his family's enthusiasm. He also, now he thinks about it, notices a pattern. Open up, inadvertently; divert, distract, deny – with sex or with anger, or both; back away, pick a fight, try to make him step back, break off. Every time he inadvertently tries to _take care_ of her, every time he does something, anything, that might make her think that they have something other than a series of one-night stands, she backs off twice as fast and slams the barriers into place.

Running away. She's – running away from a relationship. She's running away so fast because she's scared. _I see you, Beckett_. She's scared that this might mean something more to her than a one-night stand. He's winning. She's fighting it, fighting him, fighting herself, again, but he's winning. It soothes the sting of his hurt, and the bruise to his pride. Because, he realises, this time she hadn't just admitted a little bit of her past, she'd as good as said she'd needed him.

But running is not the way it's going to be. She doesn't get to run away from him till he's ready to let her go. And she won't need to run any time soon. He just has to go back to what he'd realised, less than ten days ago – how could he have forgotten so quickly? – that all he needs to do is play along, act like he's happy with the present situation, and wait for her to realise that he's not a luxury, but a necessity. Which she will do, because she needed him last night. Then she'll stop this running away trick. He's just got a bit ahead of himself, that's all. _Stupid, Rick. You knew what to do. Just do it._ He can act. He can play it cool. He's very patient, when he wants something.

In which case, in pursuit of the far greater goal, he can mend this particular fight. He just needs to apologise, even if it's through gritted teeth, for the mis-step and take a bit more care with his words. (he does far too much of this apologising business where Beckett is concerned, but he can bite the bullet – and last time she apologised too, which helps, so maybe this time she will as well) But she is still going to turn up at his loft and answer his questions. He's not letting her avoid that. Or avoid him. If matters should go well, and if she happens to believe that that's another one-night stand… well, ain't that a shame, as the song goes?

And he's got his trump card, still tucked away, too. Clark's got the file, and soon enough he'll have some answers for her; something to take her pain away. Then she'll understand that he's the only person who can satisfy her needs effectively, whether it's in bed or out of it; she'll see that someone taking care of her, in moderation, is a good thing (he doesn't want a clinging vine, just a little give and take – especially _take_, mmmm) and everything will fall into place at that point, if it hasn't already. She likes him best – or he irritates her least (well, outside bed) - when he helps her solve a murder in the precinct, so she'll be delighted if he helps her solve this case, because this one means far more to her. He smiles ferally to himself. Okay, he's resumed normal service. Now he's ready to advance on the new front in this scene from the sex war.

His phone beeps cheerily. Ryan:_ What's up?_ Well, that's an interesting development.

He replies _Not good at searching databases. It's boring. If you finish before the bars close, I'll buy you a drink. If not, see you tomorrow. Let me know._ He wants to know if Beckett's like this with the others, or just him. If it's just him… well. That's an admission that Beckett won't realise she's making. You don't react like she does if there aren't some pretty strong feelings there. But, although it would be quite contrary to what he thinks he knows of her personality, it's worth finding out if she behaves like that often, or with everyone.

He wanders off to prepare dinner confident that he's got a winning strategy. He's still going to make it work, exactly as he chooses. He'll get exactly what he wants, just the way he wants it. It's just taking a little longer than he expected.

He utterly fails to realise that he isn't just playing a whole different ball-game from his previous encounters with women, he's now playing a whole different sport.

* * *

Beckett and the boys are running endless searches, till their eyes are close to bleeding and their vision blurring. None of them are helping find the real identity of this woman, and the tech team can't get them her laptop in an accessible fashion till the morning. Around nine-thirty, all the enquiries that they can make tonight have been made, and Beckett releases Esposito and Ryan to whatever nocturnal experiences might take their fancy. In the elevator Ryan's simultaneously texting and explaining to Esposito that Castle's paying for the beers, which finds considerable favour, even if they will have to listen to way-out theories. A bar with pool tables and some good microbrew is selected and arrangements made.

An hour and a half later there's a cheerful three-way contest on the pool table. Ryan's losing, but he's used to that. Espo and Castle are, again, neck and neck. Castle, still carrying a heavy undercoat of wanting to win Beckett, is not inclined to lose at anything else, and is gradually defaulting towards the focused, hard-edged personality that he normally keeps well hidden in the precinct. When Ryan comes back with another three bottles of beer he notices the change. Not being nearly as stupid or as naïve as a number of unfortunate and jailed criminals have thought him to be based on his looks, however, he bides his time until Espo's taken a short break.

"You okay?" Castle takes his shot and smiles with feral satisfaction as the ball drops cleanly into the centre pocket. Ryan applauds gently.

"Yeah." It sounds true to Ryan. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"You left a little fast. Didn't wave goodbye or anything. Don't you love us any more?" Castle manufactures a sheepish look and, since he's been handed the perfect opening, rapidly constructs the way to find out what he wants to know.

"I'm buying the beer, aren't I? Why would I stay around to watch you run searches and get bored, with Beckett in that mood? I didn't want to be responsible for multiple homicides. You gotta admit she was revving up for it." He pauses, fakes concern for his own safety in the presence of a seriously irritable Beckett well enough to fool Ryan. "Does she go off on one like that often?" Ryan shrugs.

"Naw. We wouldn't work with her if she did. Who wants to work with a diva?" Castle winces. He lives with one, and had been married to another. "Hardly ever, and only if she's really stressed out."

"What d'you do to sort it out?" That's a dangerous question, treading very close to the line of what he might be able to ask without alerting Ryan to his real motives.

"Leave her to work through it; or sometimes call Lanie and drag us all into a bar. It's always because of the job. She gets twitchy when nothing pops on a case. She's kinda insulted when that happens. But if we leave her to it, she'll keep working till she finds something. It's easiest that way."

Ah. More than he'd hoped to learn. Much more. So, she's not normally as easily angered. He puts that together with _make me forget_ and deduces that she's not just been infuriated by him, but she's also been seriously disturbed by this case. _She's heading for burnout_. That's interesting. More interesting, though, is that she deals with it by working through it. In which case… she'll likely still be working now. In which case… he could usefully go home via the precinct and (ugh) apologise. Mend matters. Show he's the bigger person. If she's not there, then he's not going to follow her home, though. That's a long step too far. He's not a lapdog.

While he's been thinking, he's mechanically kept potting balls. He's down to the eight-ball now, and sinks it neatly in the left corner. Ryan looks at him a little oddly.

"That was impressive. Little more focused than usual, Castle?"

"Just lucky." He smiles in his usual happy-go-lucky way, reining back any other aspects of his personality. "Want another beer?" But he's noticed Ryan starting to look at the door, and when Espo returns it's clear that the boys are ready to quit. He doesn't argue.

Castle hails a cab and makes sure that the boys are out of earshot when he gives the Twelfth's address. He thinks he's gone as far as he can by questioning Ryan, who's sure to mention it to Espo at some point, without giving them food for thought and what would be likely to be entirely too accurate deductions.

When he slips quietly out of the elevator the bullpen is dark and silent. There's no puddle of light around the murder board, no Beckett sitting on the desk, swinging her feet and glaring at it until it gives her some answers out of sheer terror. Even if inanimate objects don't normally feel fear, Beckett's glare would inspire it in them. She's not at her desk: her lamp is out. The desk is, however, messier than she normally leaves it. That is to say, it has two pieces of paper on it. Neatly on it. But normally when she leaves her desk is completely empty. Her screen is off, though. The break room windows show that area to be dark, and there's no noise from the coffee machine. She must have gone home. Well, he's not pursuing her home so he can apologise. He's not that sorry. He's not that sorry at all, and he's only doing this in pursuit of the greater goal. She ought to apologise, too. It takes two to fight.

Which is when he trips over the protruding edge of the bottom drawer of her desk, invisible in the gloom, and barely saves himself from crashing full-length. What the hell is that doing open, ambushing unwary visitors? He sits down hard in Beckett's chair and peers at the damage done to his calf with the assistance of the light from his phone. The corners of these drawers are unpleasantly sharp. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the handle of Beckett's purse. He reverts to perusing the already-swelling bruise on his leg, and prods it gently. The sharp pain does not improve his mood. On the other hand, it does kick his brain into action. Beckett's purse is here?

That means that Beckett is here. Somewhere. He closes the drawer before it can attack him again, and starts to search. First, the gym. She could easily be taking her frustration out on the punchbag. He quietly slips up the stairs and investigates, prowling through the dingy room and not failing to listen very carefully in case the showers are running. They're not. And there is no sound that would indicate that someone is anywhere within the showers or restrooms. These rooms are completely empty, as he would expect, at midnight. He returns to the bullpen, and does what he should have done first, had he not been distracted by the feral drawer. Though he should be grateful to it, since had he not fallen over it he wouldn't have realised that Beckett was still here. He pads over to the break room and peers around the edge of the door, taking care not to shine the light from his phone screen through it. He lets his eyes adjust to the scant light dribbling into the bullpen from the streetlamps, and listens very hard. Very faintly, he can hear breathing. He slides his phone into his pocket in order not to waken whoever is there – though really there can only be one candidate for this particular form of insanity – and slides around and into the room, silently.

And naturally, there is Beckett, a rolled-up blanket under her head, another one crumpled on the floor beside her, which had likely started over her. Her shoes are neatly placed together at the end of the couch. She's fast asleep, phone by her head, lashes sweeping down and depositing already-smudged make-up on her face; the dark lines against her cheek delineating the dark rings below her closed eyes as bars delineate a cell. In the dim light, the shadows pool around the sharp lines of her cheekbones, the edge of her jaw. She's taken off the jacket she'd had over her scarlet tee, but otherwise she's still dressed just as she had been. Without her driving personality inhabiting her face and posture the traces of stress and tiredness are painfully clear.

Castle gazes down at her for a few moments, sizing up his options and his aims. He'd steeled himself to apologise, which is a pursuit that he abhors; but there is no point in apologising to a sleeping Beckett. He could, of course, wake her: ask her why she's still here (but he knows why); suggest that she might go home (but he knows she won't); and then apologise. If he wakes her, however, she's unlikely to be receptive. Even if he takes the infinitely desirable option of waking her with a kiss. Smudged make-up, tousled hair and slightly dishevelled clothing reminds him of the way he likes to see her, ruffled and aroused, stretched out across a – his – bed, knowing that when he touches her she'll be ready, and open, and his. Dark possessive instinct says _wake her, take her home, take her_. Vestiges of intelligence and strategic planning say _No, stalk your prey more carefully, now is not the time._

He watches for a short while, in case she wakes. Instead, she shivers in her sleep, curls up more tightly against some dream-chill. Castle, since there's no-one to see, indulges his protective feelings, being unable to indulge his more primitive ones, tucks the discarded blanket over her and drops a kiss on her hair. It's hardly satisfying, and he leaves for home edgy, irritated and frustrated.

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers, logged in or guest, for letting me know what you think._


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37: Can't read my poker face**

The morning does not bring much peace, or cure Castle's irritation.

Explaining the current state of the case to his overly-interested family merely leads into comments from Alexis that it's crazy, and from his mother that the woman must have been a criminal. Or a spy. Which translates, in Castle's mind, to being an extremely good actress. It would have been okay, if he hadn't then opened his mouth and said precisely that. It could still have been okay, if his mother hadn't taken the opportunity to open her own mouth. She knows he threw the last hand on Monday night. _Very_ fortunately, she (and Alexis) believe that he did it so as not to embarrass Beckett, rather than his real reasons. They're not impressed, though. The word _patronising_ is particularly stinging. When his phone rings and there's a reason to go to the precinct he jumps at it.

Behind him, as Alexis leaves for school, Martha considers her options. Richard had been astonishingly stupid in throwing his hand, and if he actually manages to realise his evident hopes it could be severely deleterious if Detective Beckett finds out accidentally, later in their relationship. Time, she thinks, for some motherly assistance. It's absolutely not meddling. Just… helping Richard to achieve the most desirable outcome. One should always support one's child. When one approves of his goals.

Martha considers the position some more. She very much likes what she's seen of Detective Beckett, though she was as unreadable during the poker game as she had been at any previous time. Alexis likes her, too. Richard's evidently smitten, though. She hasn't seen him as protective as he had been on Sunday morning since… well. Well, well, well. Since Kyra, certainly. On the other hand, Detective Beckett does not appear to need protection. Or, for that matter, Richard. And Richard had better understand that in short order, or it will all end badly. She'd like to see him happy, and if Detective Beckett makes him happy, then Martha will do her best to help him have Detective Beckett. Even if she'd _told_ Richard the detective was far too good for him, that was only to keep his ego in check. Of course they would be wonderful together. It was perfectly clear from the way they looked – and looked at each other - when they were at the fundraiser that they should be together. In fact, it almost looked as if they already were. Martha shakes her head. She's sure that if Richard had already got together with his stunning Detective she'd have noticed. If only because he could never have kept it quiet. But still, any extraneous items that might be in the way should be cleared from their path. Such as deliberately letting Detective Beckett win and keeping it secret.

Decision made, Martha puts in a call and is shortly talking to Detective Beckett, who seems remarkably unconcerned by Martha's revelation. Completely uncaring, in fact. That's rather disappointing. Martha had expected some interest in why she might be calling – which had been noticeably, if very politely – lacking; and some reaction to being informed that Detective Beckett had been allowed to win – which had been completely absent. She wonders, far too late for it to do any good at all, if calling Detective Beckett had really been such a good idea. If she's that indifferent, Richard's already flogging a dead horse.

* * *

Beckett had woken early and uncomfortable, though strangely the blanket had still appeared to be around her. That's unusual. Once she'd changed and showered at the precinct, she had spent some time glaring at her murder board until she could legitimately call the cyber team and start to pry the information out of the circuit boards of the laptop. When they have, there's a new lead. With some considerable irritation at the necessity, Beckett tells Ryan to call Castle to come and see. She has no desire to speak to him. She also, however, has no desire to be pulled up by Captain Montgomery for disobeying orders.

She's interrupted by a call on her landline. She doesn't get too many of those, so she's initially puzzled. When she realises it's Castle's mother, that changes to being wary. When she hears what the woman has to say, she's absolutely, incandescently furious. Beckett calls on every last scrap of her self-control to remain utterly calm and not to reveal a single iota of what she feels. Castle's mother had no business ringing her and interfering – and why did she do that, anyway? What possible interest could she have in the outcome of a poker hand that she'd already folded from? And if this is some obscure – or stupid – way of trying to show her, Beckett, how selfless and caring her son is (and by implication hoping to improve Beckett's view of him) then it has backfired quite, quite spectacularly.

Anyway. Neither Castle's meddling mother nor Castle needs to know just how infuriated she is. But she's not going to lose her temper at Castle. She's not even going to shout. She's not going to give either of them the satisfaction. But her sheer, overwhelming rage has overcome all good sense and incinerated her boundaries. She's going to give him back his money (she laments the Ferragamos for a short second) and he can play again – fairly. She doesn't care where she has the revenge match, at his apartment or hers or the middle of Central Park on the carousel. Then she will take him for every last cent in his pockets, or she'll lose, on her own merits. Not because some rich spoilt asshole thinks he needs to be _nice_ to the little woman just because he's slept with her. Patronising, chauvinistic swine. Put together with buying her an evening dress instead of trusting that she had one, (she ignores that she hadn't had one that she would have been happy to wear) it all adds up to one thing: he doesn't think she's capable of taking care of herself. In fact, he's treating her like a child who needs to be humoured in case they'll be upset by losing or looking out of place, rather than a mature woman who can deal with whatever life brings. Worse, he doesn't think she can pay her own way. He can have the dress back, too, then. She can buy her own appropriate apparel. She'll pack it up tonight and deliver it to his apartment immediately thereafter. This is 2009, not 1959. She can pay her own way and manage her own life. Castle can go teach a fish to ride a bicycle.

Castle doesn't necessarily expect Beckett to be in any better mood with him than she had been yesterday, and he is not disappointed. If anything, the fire banked in her eyes and the edge in her tone are more apparent. She's uninterested in his greeting, unaffected by his presence (no matter how close he stands) and indifferent to his comments. His never-strong impulse to apologise is receding faster than the tide just before a tsunami.

It seems that their victim was corresponding with a Lee: and further seems like it's a boyfriend. With no other leads, this one's location is tracked down by the clever techs in Cyber, and shortly Castle is pursuing the rapid, aggravated clack of Beckett's heels, rapping out chilly annoyance with every stride. The same icy irritation infects the cruiser and their journey proceeds in uncomfortable silence. Just like yesterday, really. Except all Beckett's barriers are up, and instead of the heated, fiery fury, that he can just about manage to deal with because at least it means that she's focused on him, it's the glacial permafrost that takes her further away from him with every minute.

He begins to suspect, with a sense of squirming dread, that something else has been added to yesterday's disastrous conversation. This time, however, it can't possibly be his fault. He hasn't done anything… oh _shit._ Suddenly it's all terribly, transparently clear. Somehow – and he's sure he knows not just how but _who_ – Beckett has learned that he threw his hand. And she doesn't like it.

Whatever yesterday's rights and wrongs, now he really does owe her an apology, because he would never have done that with – to – anyone else. Not that he'd have had the motive to do it, either. But all it's got him, instead of a receptive Beckett, is the re-establishment of as large an ice-shelf as it's possible to have without actually being in Antarctica.

Just before they knock on their suspect's door, precisely timed so that Castle can't start an argument, Beckett counts off a sheaf of bills and presents them to Castle with exaggerated formality and considerable care that she doesn't touch him at all.

"What's this?" but he knows perfectly well what it is. A barrier the size of the Hoover Dam.

"Your winnings from the other night. I'm not an idiot. I know you threw the last hand." He hates it when she sounds like this: when she treats him like that spoilt, arrogant playboy that his publicity makes him out to be; when it's right back to the original cold contempt with a side order of disgust and a sprinkling of hatred.

"How did you figure it out?" He knows how. He just wants to keep her talking, in the hope that he can use his words and intelligence to talk her out of this, show her that he didn't mean to disparage or disrespect her. Quite how he's going to achieve that without admitting what he had wanted, which will not help at all, he doesn't know. What had he been thinking?

"That's not the point." More disgust. She really isn't going to care about his reasons, and something tells him that trying to cure this by using physical proximity and attraction is likely to fail. Epically, as Alexis might say.

"Oh, my mother called you, didn't she?" He knows she did, and very shortly he is going to have a long and detailed discussion with his mother. He'd thought she _liked_Beckett.

"You owe me a rematch." That's a – better outcome than he was expecting. Though she doesn't look as if the thought gives her any pleasure at all. He accepts before she has any chance at all to think better of it, and even more happily than that he's got the perfect set up.

"Fine. You want to play? Let's play. How about tomorrow night?" Oh yes, they'll play. No holds barred. He'll hold her. Then he'll take her. Once she's on his territory he'll be back in control of this game. She does _not_ get to shut him out like this.

"With your mystery buddies?" She doesn't sound impressed, considering she's got a huge collection of crime fiction, including samples of all of their works too.

"What, are you kidding? No, no, no. Those guys would eat you alive. No. I was thinking something a little more local. My, uh, Gotham City crew. Guys I beat on a regular basis." He knows exactly what he's doing now. Right back to the beginning again. Rile her up, and let anger spark heat, and then let that heat boil over and melt her ice.

"Your Gotham City crew?" Not enough anger. In fact, not any. Still cold contempt. He needs her to get angry.

"Yeah. The Captain, the Mayor, and Judge Markway. You know. Your boss. Your boss's boss, and the guy that signs your warrants. Or would that make you nervous? I mean, I wouldn't want to throw your game, but I also don't want you to feel patronised."

"Just set it up. And prepare to get your ass kicked." She's still glacial, but his tone of _I-bet-you're-scared_ has had the desired effect. There's a very heavy current of anger under it now. He'd push harder, rile her further, but her timing is perfect: she's already knocking on an – open door? Her professional shell is straight back on, and she walks straight on in.

It's a shrine to the victim. Photos, news clippings, more pictures: the victim is everywhere. It's looking suddenly simpler: crazed stalker equals psycho killer. Until the sharp-faced, hard eyed woman turns out to be a true crime writer, and their victim turns out to be a killer herself. An eco-terrorist, who'd bombed an oil tanker, killed one of her accomplices and almost killed the captain, who's been in hiding for nearly twenty years, and who'd suddenly decided to tell her story.

Copies of the writer's – Lee Wax? Gotta be a pseudonym – information will be transported to somewhere it can actually do some good: Beckett's murder board. Interviewing her doesn't make Beckett like her any better, and even if she's still livid with Castle it doesn't mean she wants to watch this piranha eyeing him up. Though it's Beckett she wants a favour from. No way. One pestilent, infuriating, patronising writer is enough. Beckett leaves them to it, not failing to insult Castle as she leaves. She sees it hit home.

Castle doesn't want to exchange compliments with this second-rate hack. He's seen the look in her eye and although it's flattering that she's sizing him up he's not interested. He knows this type: more interested in his wallet and fame than his personality, and out to use him. He's seen enough of them, and run them off. Still, this is a witness. He'll let her think there's a chance he'll tip her the wink, to keep her sweet. Like hell there is, though. He has far more self-respect than that. He doesn't cheat, and that would be cheating the case. And why anyone would think he'd pass on a real, fiercely honest woman for a sleaze like Lee Wax he does not know.

Not that the real woman wants to speak to him. It's a chilly journey to the next potential suspect, and it's a chilly journey back again. The radio stays turned up loud, preventing any attempt at conversation, and in-car cameras or not Castle is perfectly certain from the tone of Beckett's silence that any move to touch it will result in his removal from the car and probably from life. She's shut down her anger, shut him out. Every time she does that she's trying to push him away. He's not going to have it. She's his and she admitted it and she is not going to run away from him. Them. He just needs to fix his screw-up. If he'd remembered about Beckett's granite integrity two days ago before he threw the game it might have helped. If he'd remembered that she is nothing like any of the other women he's been with that would have helped too. If he hadn't lost his temper yesterday that would also have been a good start.

He tries conversation back in the bullpen, but Beckett turns her shoulder and only gives him back contemptuous sarcasm about his need for a story. He picks up the Wax manuscript automatically and takes it with him to the cruiser for the next interview.

Esposito's found out enough for them to track down the other member of the bomb squad – he'd done fifteen years, but now he's out, cleaning the streets and keeping the lowest profile he can. He claims to be wracked with guilt that one of them died: that he'd mistimed the bomb. Well, maybe, thinks Beckett, professionally cynical and suspicious. But she'll be looking into this man very hard indeed. There's no such thing as honour among thieves – or murderers. High ideals normally turn out to be low motives. Thinking of which...

"You can go home now, Castle," she says, coldly. She's had quite enough of him today. Keeping her boiling anger locked down under the permafrost of her control is becoming increasingly difficult. She wants him gone. It'll give her enough time to calm herself down before she takes the dress back. She's not a coward, and she will take it back and have the guts to tell him to his face exactly _why_ she has handed it back. But she's not doing that the same night as she has to sit through a poker game that she intends to win.

"Beckett..."

"Not interested. Go home. Nothing more is going to happen today." She pulls the cruiser into the kerb and waits, very obviously, for him to get out.

"Going back to the precinct, Beckett?" She doesn't bother answering. "Is the break room couch comfortable?" He's pushing. Anything to make her angry. "It didn't look it." There's a sharp draw of breath, an arrow of annoyance.

"None of your business where I choose to be." This is not going to improve any if he keeps talking. She might just say something even more hurtful. Such as _with someone else_. He takes the papers, opens the car door and starts to step out, then leans back in.

"Till tomorrow, Beckett," he says. "You can't drive me away." She pulls off without another word.

It's still quite early in the evening. Alexis is doing her homework upstairs, and his mother appears to be contemplating a glass of wine. Perfect.

"Mother. Just the person I wanted to talk to." His tone is not inviting. His mother misses it entirely.

"What is it, darling?"

"Why did you tell Beckett I threw my hand?" She doesn't miss the edge this time.

Martha tosses her head. "She deserved to know the truth. You weren't going to tell her, now, were you? It didn't sound as if she cared, anyway. No harm done."

"No harm done? Thanks to your revelations she's treated me like something you scrape off your shoe all day. I'd say you've done quite enough harm." His mother isn't looking nearly contrite enough for his taste. In fact, she's looking as if something's just fallen into place.

"What are you thinking, Mother?"

"Oh, nothing, kiddo. Nothing at all." Since wringing his mother's neck is not an approved method of family therapy, Castle is left with no comeback. Fortunately, Alexis comes downstairs in the hope that there will be dinner shortly and turns the conversation back to the intriguing subject of the case.

Dinner done, case discussion prompting ideas about whose tale this really was – Wax's or a plant by the dead woman to put her side of the story without anyone to contradict her – Castle's reading the manuscript after Alexis and his mother have disappeared – Alexis to study for the rest of the evening, his mother God-knows-where – there's a forceful rap at the door. When Castle opens it, he's presented with a large box, which is concealing the Ross ice-shelf otherwise known as Detective Beckett, still dressed as she had been for work with her gun on her hip.

"I'm returning this to you." What the hell? He hasn't lent her anything. He takes the box and waits for her to enter. She looks as frozen-faced as he's ever seen her.

"Returning what?" he says blankly. He takes the box to his study, and Beckett follows him. She shuts the door behind her. Ice, spreading from the cold of her demeanour, is creeping into his veins. Nothing good about this situation occurs to him. He flicks the lid open as she speaks and looks down into the box.

"Returning the dress you provided for the fundraiser." _What the fuck?_ Neatly folded, and with that certain finished look that argues the use of a top-of-the-line cleaning service, is the dress he'd given her, together with the underwear. She's just thrown his gift back in his face. For a moment he just looks at it, trying to hide the instant agony in his chest. He wonders, briefly, if it's cardiac arrest or just his heart breaking.

"I don't take anything from people who don't respect me. Give it to someone who actually needs your charity. There's a good thrift shop over on the East Side." Every word bites like the tips of a cat-o-nine-tails.

"I can buy my own dresses, dress appropriately for any occasion, and cover my card losses. Though you clearly don't think that's the case. I don't know what sort of pathetic bimbos you're used to meeting, but I'm not one of them. Nor am I a child to be looked after. I don't need your money and I don't need your patronising efforts to _improve _me. So I've returned both. We're all square." She turns away and grasps the door handle. She hasn't raised her voice beyond its normal speaking volume for any single syllable, yet he could have heard every word from the other end of Central Park, so precisely enunciated had they been.

He looks down at the dress again and remembers her in it. It pulls the pin from the grenade of his fury.

"That was _not_ why I got the dress." He puts a hand on the door to stop it opening. Not putting hands on Beckett to prevent her leaving is almost impossible. But he is still not that man. Provocation is _never_ an acceptable excuse.

"Really, Castle." It's not even a question. She sounds bored of the subject already. She's come in, dropped her latest scarifying bombshell, and now she's intending to leave. No. They will _have_ this argument. She doesn't get to shut him down like this and walk away.

* * *

_Bonus points, or virtual cookies, to everyone who identifies the reference Beckett uses. _

_Thank you to all reviewers._


End file.
